nl 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Professor 
Charles  T.  ^oehlein 


FANTASTICS  AND  OTHER  FANCIES 


FANTASTICS 
AND  OTHER  FANCIES 

BY 

LAFCADIO  HEARN 

EDITED   BY 
CHARLES   WOODWARD   HUTSON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


PS 

\c\ 
fa  I 


There  are  tropical  lilies  which  are  venomous, 
but  they  are  more  beautiful  than  the  frail 
and  icy-white  lilies  of  the  North. 

Lafcadio  Hearn. 


862555 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION '    i 

IN  THE  "ITEM" 
ALL  IN  WHITE 29 

September  14,  1879. 

THE  LITTLE  RED  KITTEN 33 

September  24, 1879. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  ALL  SAINTS 37 

November  i,  1879. 

THE  DEVIL'S  CARBUNCLE 40 

November  2,  1879. 

LES  COULISSES 43 

December  6,  1879. 

THE  STRANGER 51 

April  17,  1880. 

Y  PORQUE? 54 

April  17,  1880. 

A  DREAM  .OF  KITES 57 

June  18,  1880. 
HEREDITARY  MEMORIES 60 

July  22,  1880. 

vii 


CONTENTS 
THE  GHOSTLY  Kiss 66 

July  24,  1880. 
THE  BLACK  CUPID 71 

July  29,  1880. 

WHEN  I  WAS  A  FLOWER 77 

August  13,  1880. 

METEMPSYCHOSIS ,    .    .    80 

September  7,  1880. 

THE  UNDYING  ONE 85 

September  18,  1880. 

THE  VISION  OF  THE  DEAD  CREOLE  .    .    92 

September  25,  1880. 

THE  NAME  ON  THE  STONE 98 

October  9,  1880. 

APHRODITE  AND  THE  KING'S  PRISONER     102 

October  12,  1880. 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  GOLD no 

October  15,  1880. 
A  DEAD  LOVE 120 

October  21,  1880. 

AT  THE  CEMETERY '  .    .123 

November  i,  1880. 

"AlDA" V  .<  ...   127 

January  17,  1881. 

viii 


CONTENTS 
EL  VOMITO 136 

March  21,  1881. 

THE  IDYL  OF  A  FRENCH  SNUFF-BOX  .    .  143 

April  5,  1881. 

SPRING  PHANTOMS 147 

April  21,  1881. 

A  Kiss  FANTASTICAL 152 

June  8,  1881. 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  GIRL 160 

June  14,  1881. 

THE  TALE  OF  A  FAN 166 

July  i,  1881. 

A  LEGEND 170 

July  21,  1881. 

THE  GIPSY'S  STORY 174 

August  18,  1881. 

THE  ONE  PILL-BOX      „ 183 

October  12,  1881. 

IN  THE  "TIMES-DEMOCRAT" 

A  RIVER  REVERIE 191 

May  2,  1882. 

"His  HEART  is  OLD" 198 

May  7,  1882. 

MDCCCLHI 206 

May  21, 1882. 

ix 


CONTENTS 

HlOUEN-THSANG 211 

June  25,  1882. 

L' AMOUR  APRES  LA  MORT 223 

April  6,  1884. 

THE  POST-OFFICE 227 

October  19, 1884. 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

"I  AM  conscious  they  are  only  trivial,"  wrote 
Lafcadio  Hearn  from  New  Orleans  in  1880  to 
his  friend  H.  E.  Krehbiel,  speaking  of  the  weird 
little  sketches  he  was  publishing  from  time  to 
time  in  the  columns  of  the  Daily  Item,  the  New 
Orleans  newspaper  which  first  gave  him  em- 
ployment in  the  city  where  he  spent  the  ten 
years  from  1877  to  1887. 

"But  I  fancy,"  he  goes  on,  "that  the  idea  of 
the  fantastics  is  artistic.  They  are  my  impres- 
sions of  the  strange  life  of  New  Orleans.  They 
are  dreams  of  a  tropical  city.  There  is  one  twin- 
idea  running  through  them  all  —  Love  and 
Death.  And  these  figures  embody  the  story  of 
life  here,  as  it  impresses  me.  I  hope  to  be  able 
to  take  a  trip  to  Mexico  in  the  summer  just  to 
obtain  literary  material,  sun-paint,  tropical 
color,  etc.  There  are  tropical  lilies  which  are 
venomous,  but  they  are  more  beautiful  than  the 
frail  and  icy-white  lilies  of  the  North.  Tell  me 
if  you  received  a  fantastic  founded  upon  the 
3 


INTRODUCTION 

story  of  Ponce  de  Leon.  I  think  I  sent  it  in  my 
last  letter.  I  have  not  written  any  fantastics 
since  except  one  —  inspired  by  Tennyson's 
fancy,  — 

"'My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Had  it  lain  for  a  century  dead  — 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet  — 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red.'" 

It  was  this  "  Fantastic,"  published  first  in  the 
Item  on  October  21,  1880,  and  later  re- written 
in  more  ornate  style  and  published  in  the  Times- 
Democrat  on  April  6,  1884,  under  the  title  of 
"L' Amour  apres  la  Mort,"  which  is  the  only 
one  of  the  weird  little  sketches  that  has  ap- 
peared in  book  form,  outside  of  those  which  he 
himself  republished  in  Stray  Leaves  from  Strange 
Literatures,  and  Some  Chinese  Ghosts. 

For  it  was  this  one  which  he  sent  to  a  friend 
with  the  deprecatory  criticism  that  it  "be- 
longed to  the  Period  of  Gush"  and  the  request 
"to  burn  or  tear  it  up  after  reading."  He  had 
merely  enclosed  it  to  show  how  and  when  he 
had  first  used  the  phrase  "lentor  inexpressible" 
to  which  his  friend  had  objected. 

"  Fortunately  his  correspondent  —  as  did 
most  of  those  to  whom  he  wrote  —  treasured 
4 


INTRODUCTION 

everything  in  his  handwriting,"  says  his  bi- 
ographer, Mrs.  Elizabeth  Bisland  Wetmore, 
"  and  the  fragment  which  bore  —  my  impres- 
sion is —  the  title  of  'A  Dead  Love'  (the  clip- 
ping lacks  the  caption)  remains  to  give  an  ex- 
ample of  some  of  the  work  that  bears  the  flaws 
of  his  'prentice  hand,  before  he  used  his  tools 
with  the  assured  skill  of  a  master."  And  she 
quotes  the  strange,  fanciful  little  sketch  hi  full, 
with  the  comment:  "To  his  own,  and  perhaps 
other  middle-aged  taste,  'A  Dead  Love'  may 
seem  negligible,  but  to  those  still  young  enough, 
as  he  himself  then  was,  to  credit  passion  with  a 
potency  not  only  to  survive  'the  gradual  fur- 
nace of  the  world,'  but  even  to  blossom  in  the 
dust  of  graves,  this  stigmatization  as  'Gush'  will 
seem  as  unfeeling  as  always  does  to  the  young 
the  dry  and  sapless  wisdom  of  granddams.  To 
them  any  version  of  the  Orphic  myth  is  tin- 
glingly  credible.  Yearningly  desirous  that  the 
brief  flower  of  life  may  never  fade,  such  a  cry 
finds  an  echo  in  the  very  roots  of  their  inex- 
perienced hearts.  The  smouldering  ardor  of  its 
style,  which  a  chastened  judgment  rejected, 
was  perhaps  less  faulty  than  its  author  be- 
lieved it  to  be  hi  later  years." 
5 


INTRODUCTION 

"It  was  to  my  juvenile  admiration  for  this 
particular  bit  of  work,"  she  goes  on,  "that  I 
owed  the  privilege  of  meeting  Lafcadio  Hearn 
in  the  winter  of  1882,  and  of  laying  the  founda- 
tion of  a  close  friendship  which  lasted  without 
a  break  until  the  day  of  his  death." 

His  Unking  of  love  with  death  in  this  and 
the  other  "Fantastics"  was  hi  full  accord  with 
the  sombre  atmosphere  of  the  trebly  stricken 
city  to  which  he  had  come  —  a  city  with  a  glori- 
ous and  a  joyous  past,  but  just  then  ruined  by 
three  horrors:  —  recent  war,  misrule  under  the 
carpet-baggers,  and  oft-recurring  pestilence. 
He  had  come  expecting  much  from  a  semi- 
tropical  environment.  He  found  sorrow  and 
trouble  and  a  wasted  land;  and  his  mood  was 
soon  in  unison  with  the  disastrous  elements 
around  him.  His  letter  to  his  friend  Watkin 
when  he  first  came  to  this  smitten  Paradise 
shows  how  strong  the  impression  was:  "When 
I  saw  it  first  —  sunrise  over  Louisiana  —  the 
tears  sprang  to  my  eyes.  It  was  like  young 
death  —  a  dead  bride  crowned  with  orange 
flowers  —  a  dead  face  that  asked  for  a  kiss. 
I  cannot  say  how  fair  and  rich  and  beautiful 
this  dead  South  is.  It  has  fascinated  me.  I 
6 


INTRODUCTION 

have  resolved  to  live  in  it;  I  could  not  leave  it 
for  that  chill  and  damp  Northern  life  again." 

From  the  files  of  the  Item  and  the  Times- 
Democrat  over  a  score  of  these  "  F&ntastics " 
have  been  gathered,  and  with  them  certain 
other  fanciful  little  sketches  that  seem  worth 
preserving,  though  they  do  not  deal  so  di- 
rectly with  the  mystic  "twin-idea  of  Love  and 
Death." 

In  his  sympathetic  Introduction  to  Hearn's 
Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  an  Impressionist,  Mr. 
Ferris  Greenslet  deplores  the  loss  of  that  col- 
lection of  these  "Fantastics"  made  by  Heara 
himself  as  one  section  of  the  book  he  evidently 
planned  to  publish  under  the  title  Ephemera, 
or  Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  an  Impressionist. 
Says  Mr.  Greenslet:  — 

"Apparently  it  was  Hearn's  intention  to  add 
to  the  '  Floridian  Reveries '  a  little  collection  of 
'Fantastics,'  with  such  savory  titles  as  'Aida,' 
'The  Devil's  Carbuncle,'  'A  Hemisphere  hi  a 
Woman's  Hair,'  'The  Fool  and  Venus,'  etc.1 

1  Among  the  papers  held  by  Dr.  Gould  is  a  memoran- 
dum of  some  of  the  "Fantastics,"  thus  numbered:  — 
i.  "Alda." 
a.  Hiouen-Thsang. 


INTRODUCTION 

"  This  group,  however,  is,  unfortunately,  lost. 
From  the  notebook  labeled  upon  its  cover 
'Fantastics'  many  leaves  have  been  cut,  and 
there  remains  only  the  paper  on  'Arabian 
Women.' " 

But  for  the  solitary  copy  of  the  files  of  the 
Item,  preserved  in  the  office  of  that  paper,  most 
of  these  earliest  bits  of  original  fantasy  wrought 
by  the  shabby,  eccentric  young  journalist, 
whose  passion  for  exquisite  words  was  so  in- 
comprehensible to  the  other  "newspaper  boys," 
would  have  been  wholly  lost. 

"The  modest  Item  goes  no  farther  than  St. 
Louis,"  wrote  Hearn  to  Krehbiel;  and  it  was 
for  this  little  two-page  paper,  too  insignificant 

3.  El  V6mito. 

4.  The  Devil's  Carbuncle. 

5.  A  Hemisphere  in  a  Woman's  Hair. 

6.  The  Clock. 

7.  The  Fool  and  Venus. 

8.  The  Stranger. 

Two  of  these  —  "Alda"  and  "Hiouen-Thsang" — 
were  published  under  those  titles.  Some  of  the  others  we 
think  we  have  identified  among  the  pieces  entitled  sim- 
ply "  Fantastics"  at  the  time  of  their  publication.  "The 
Fool  and  Venus"  may  have  been  meant  for  what  we 
have  called  "  Aphrodite  and  the  King's  Prisoner."  "The 
Clock"  we  have  not  found. 
8 


INTRODUCTION 

at  that  time  to  be  preserved  even  in  the  city 
archives  or  in  the  public  libraries,  that  he  wrote 
most  of  the  "tales  of  Love  and  Death"  repro- 
duced in  this  volume.  Twenty-nine  out  of  the 
thirty-odd  are  to  be  found  only,  so  far  as  we 
know,  in  the  brittle  yellow  pages  of  bound  vol- 
umes of  the  City  Item,  from  June,  1878,  to  De- 
cember, 1 88 1,  to  which  we  have  been  given 
access  through  the  courtesy  of  the  present  own- 
ers of  the  New  Orleans  Item.  The  other  six, 
some  of  which  were  rearrangements  and  para- 
phrases of  earlier  "Fantastics,"  appeared  hi  the 
Times-Democrat,  of  which  several  nearly  com- 
plete files  exist  in  libraries. 

Among  these  thirty-five  brief  but  vitally  im- 
aginative sketches  several  are  far  superior  to 
"L'Amour  apres  la  Mort." 

The  "Fantastics"  proper  and  the  "Other 
Fancies"  have  been  grouped  indiscriminately 
in  chronological  order,  though  differing  greatly 
in  spirit  and  in  excellence  of  style.  "The  Little 
Red  Kitten"  and  "At  the  Cemetery"  are  less 
labored  in  point  of  diction;  but  they  are  charm- 
ing in  their  simplicity  and  unaffected  tender- 
ness. In  the  earlier  of  these  little  pictures  his 
sympathy  with  our  "poor  brothers  "  — in  this 
9 


INTRODUCTION 

case  "sisters"  —  of  the  animal  world,  from  first 
to  last  a  striking  trait  in  his  character,  is  beau- 
tifully expressed.  There  is  delicate  humor,  too, 
as  well  as  pathos,  in  the  sketch.  In  the  latter 
we  have  the  glow  of  his  feeling  for  the  sorrow 
of  a  child,  and  the  spring  of  his  wonderful  im- 
agination which  a  few  handf uls  of  sand  not  na- 
tive to  the  spot  evoke.  In  neither  is  there  the 
least  trace  of  the  weird  which  is  in  so  large  a 
degree  characteristic  of  most  of  the  others. 
Slight  as  they  are  in  texture,  they  seem  to  me 
to  rise  far  above  the  more  subtle  and  fanciful 
tales  in  the  strength  and  beauty  of  simple  truth 
to  nature  —  to  the  best  that  was  in  his  own 
nature. 

But  the  others,  notably  "The  Black  Cupid," 
"The  Undying  One,"  "Aphrodite  and  the 
King's  Prisoner,"  "The  Fountain  of  Gold," 
"The  Gypsy's  Story,"  are  not  to  be  underval- 
ued. There  is  a  power  of  vision,  an  imagina- 
tive magnificence,  a  weird  melody  of  word- 
music  in  them  that  grips  the  mind  of  the  reader 
as  in  a  vise. 

"The  Fountain  of  Gold"  was  later  repro- 
duced in  the  form  of  "A  Tropical  Intermezzo," 
recently  given  to  a  wider  public  in  the  pages 
10 


INTRODUCTION 

of  Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  an  Impressionist. 
It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  first  sketch 
with  the  finished  picture.  The  earlier  work  is 
less  dramatic,  less  convincing,  less  artistic, 
though  full  of  a  charm  of  its  own.  The  whole 
design  is  transmuted  into  something  immensely 
effective  by  the  simple  device  of  antiquating  the 
language  of  him  who  tells  the  tale. 

In  a  less  degree  the  same  thing  may  be 
remarked  in  the  comparison  of  "A  Dead 
Love,"  written  for  the  Item,  and  "L' Amour 
apres  la  Mort,"  contributed  to  the  Times- 
Democrat. 

In  "The  Tale  of  a  Fan"  may  be  traced,  it 
seems  to  me,  the  germ  of  what  he  later  ex- 
panded or  meant  to  expand  into  "A  Hemi- 
sphere in  a  Woman's  Hair,"  which  has  not  been 
found. 

But  it  is  not  alone  the  charm  that  clings 
about  all  that  is  weird  and  fanciful  that  gives 
value  to  this  early  work  of  Hearn's.  It  sheds 
rich  light  upon  one  phase  of  his  development 
and  forms  an  essential  part  of  his  biography; 
and  it  helps  to  furnish  proof,  along  with  much 
else  of  varying  form  and  excellence,  that  he  put 
forth  a  vast  deal  of  literary  effort  in  the  years 
ii 


INTRODUCTION 

of  his  stay  in  New  Orleans  before  his  engage- 
ment with  the  Times-Democrat. 

The  extent  and  value  of  his  work  as  literary 
editor  of  the  Item  has  been  wholly  ignored  by 
his  biographers  and  critics.  This  is  due  largely 
to  the  fact  that  the  matter  he  selected  for  publi- 
cation in  his  earlier  literary  career  was  drawn 
from  the  Times-Democrat.  But  to  those  who 
have  gone  carefully  over  the  files  of  the  Item 
it  is  evident  that  he  did  far  more  original  work 
for  that  paper  than  for  the  other.  His  forte  was 
supposed  by  the  editors  of  the  Times-Democrat 
to  be  translation,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
some  striking  editorials,  his  work  for  that  pa- 
per was  mostly  translation.  Even  the  Stray 
Leaves  from  Strange  Literatures  and  Some  Chi- 
nese Ghosts  belong  to  that  category. 

Besides  the  "  Fantastics,"  he  wrote  for  the 
Item  many  editorials  on  a  variety  of  subjects 
and  many  book  reviews,  dramatic  criticisms, 
and  translations  both  from  the  French  and  the 
Spanish,  as  well  as  Creole  sketches  and  certain 
fanciful  squibs  illustrated  with  quaint  original 
designs  distinctly  akin  to  those  that  appear  in 
Letters  from  the  Raven. 

But  unquestionably  his  most  remarkable 


INTRODUCTION 

contributions  to  the  Item  were  the  "Fantas- 
tics." 

From  a  hint  given  him  by  a  traveler's  tale, 
by  a  trivial  street  incident,  by  a  couplet  of 
verse,  or  a  carven  cameo  in  an  antique  shop, 
by  an  old  legend,  or  a  few  grains  of  sand,  his 
genius  was  able  to  create  a  series  of  vivid  and 
mystical  visions,  more  real  to  him  and  to  his 
readers  than  the  political  contests  or  the  per- 
sonal gossip  which  fill  the  surrounding  columns 
of  print. 

To  discover  these  vibrant  bits  of  poesy  in 
then*  commonplace  setting  is  like  finding  rare 
and  glorious  orchids  in  the  midst  of  the  crow- 
foots and  black-eyed  Susans  that  crowd  the 
banquettes  and  gutters'  edges  of  our  New  Or- 
leans streets. 

"He  hated  the  routine  work,  and  was  really 
quite  lazy  about  it,"  testifies  Colonel  John  W. 
Fan-fax,  former  owner  of  the  Item,  and  Hearn's 
first  New  Orleans  employer  and  friend.  At  the 
age  of  seventy-two  this  genial  old  gentleman 
recalls  many  incidents  of  his  association  with 
the  eccentric  young  literary  editor  who  for  three 
years  and  a  half  aided  him  and  Mark  F.  Bigney 
in  the  task  of  filling  the  columns  of  the  unpre- 
13 


INTRODUCTION 

tentious  little  paper  which  he  had  purchased 
from  the  printers  and  tramp  journalists  who 
were  its  original  owners  —  for  the  Item  was 
started  on  a  cooperative,  profit-sharing  basis. 

"Hearn  was  really  quite  lazy  about  his  regu- 
lar work,"  Colonel  Fairfax  insists.  "We  had 
to  prod  him  up  all  the  time  —  stick  pins  in  him, 
so  to  speak.  But  when  he  would  write  one  of 
his  own  little  fanciful  things,  out  of  his  own 
head  —  dreams  —  he  was  always  dreaming  — 
why,  then  he  would  work  like  mad.  And  peo- 
ple always  noticed  those  little  things  of  his, 
somehow,  for  they  were  truly  lovely,  wonder- 
ful. 'Fantastics'  he  called  them." 

It  was  Colonel  Fairfax  who  deserves  the 
credit  of  "  discovering  "  Hearn  in  New  Orleans, 
when  he  applied,  shabby  and  half-starved,  at 
the  Item  office  for  a  job,  just  after  he  had  writ- 
ten to  his  friend  Watkin,  June  14, 1878: '  'Have 
been  here  seven  months  and  never  made  one 
cent  in  the  city.  No  possible  prospect  of  doing 
anything  in  this  town  now  or  within  twenty- 
five  years." 

But  his  next  letter  (undated)  says  —  and  it 
is  evident  that  the  impression  he  had  made  had 
secured  him  more  than  he  had  asked  for: 
14 


INTRODUCTION 

"The  day  after  I  wrote  you,  I  got  a  position 
(without  asking  for  it)  as  assistant  editor  on  the 
Item,  at  a  salary  considerably  smaller  than  that 
I  received  on  the  Commercial,  but  large  enough 
to  enable  me  to  save  half  of  it." 

And  the  old  gentleman  appears  still  to  re- 
gard the  Hearn  he  recalls  with  the  sort  of  half- 
admiring,  half-contemptuous,  wholly  marvel- 
ing affection  which  a  fine  healthy  turkey-cock 
would  feel  for  the  "ugly  duckling"  just  begin- 
ning to  reveal  himself  of  the  breed  of  swans. 

Apparently  he  and  Bigney  allowed  Hearn 
considerable  latitude  in  his  choice  and  treat- 
ment of  subject.  The  three  years  of  his  work  in 
their  employ  show  bolder  and  more  varied  edi- 
torial comment,  as  well  as  five  or  six  times  as 
many  "  Fan tas tics"  as  are  to  be  found  in  the 
six  years  of  his  work  under  the  Bakers,  and 
prove  that  the  quality  of  his  work  was  already 
fine  enough  to  justify  Page  Baker's  choice  of 
him  for  a  place  on  the  staff  of  "  the  new  literary 
venture." 

How  these  strange  little  blossoms  of  Hearn's 
genius  attracted  the  admiration  of  lovers  of 
beauty  and  won  him  fame  and  friends  among 
professional  men  and  scholars  is  told  most  viv- 


INTRODUCTION 

idly  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Rudolph  Matas,  now  a 
surgeon  of  international  reputation,  who  was 
Hearn's  friend  and  early  foresaw  his  fame. 

"In  those  days,"  says  he,  "I  was  not  so  busy 
as  I  am  now,  and  had  more  time  to  read  the 
books  I  enjoyed,  and  to  spend  long  hours  in 
talk  with  Hearn. 

"  It  was  in  the  early  eighties,  I  remember,  that 
I  knew  him  first.  Whitney,  of  the  Times-Dem- 
ocrat, was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  asked  him  one 
day:  'Who  writes  those  wonderful  things  — 
translations,  weird  sketches,  and  remarkable 
editorials  —  in  your  paper? '  And  he  told  me, 
'A  queer  little  chap,  very  shy  —  but  I'll  man- 
age for  you  to  meet  him.' 

"I  became  editor  of  the  New  Orleans  Medical 
and  Surgical  Journal  in  1883,  and  it  must  have 
been  shortly  before  this  that  I  first  met  Hearn. 
He  was  astonished  to  find  that  I  knew  him  so 
well  —  but  then,  you  see,  I  had  been  reading 
these  'Fantastics'  and  his  wonderful  book- 
reviews  and  translations,  and  his  editorials  on 
all  sorts  of  unusual  subjects,  for  a  long  time. 

"He  often  came  to  me  to  get  information 
about  medical  points  which  he  needed  in  some 
of  his  work.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  Ara- 
16 


INTRODUCTION 

bian  studies  at  that  time,  and  I  was  able  to  give 
him  some  curious  facts  about  the  practice  of 
medicine  among  the  Arabs,  which  happened  to 
be  exactly  what  he  was  seeking.  Not  only  did 
he  read  every  book  on  Arabia  which  he  could 
find,  but  he  actually  practiced  the  Arabic  script, 
and  he  used  to  write  me  fantastic  notes,  ad- 
dressing me  as  if  I  had  been  an  Arab  chief. 

"His  capacity  for  reading  swiftly  —  for  get- 
ting the  heart  out  of  a  book  —  was  amazing. 
While  others  read  sentences,  he  read  para- 
graphs, chapters  —  in  the  time  it  would  take 
an  ordinary  reader  to  finish  a  chapter,  he  would 
have  read  the  whole  book.  And  this  in  spite  of 
his  defective  vision.  With  his  one  great  near- 
sighted eye  roving  over  the  page,  he  seemed  to 
absorb  the  meaning  of  the  author — to  reach 
his  thought  and  divine  his  message  with  in- 
credible rapidity.  He  knew  books  so  well  — 
knew  the  habits  of  thought  of  their  writers,  the 
mechanics  of  literature.  His  power  of  analysis 
was  intuitive.  Swiftly  as  he  read,  it  would  be 
found  on  questioning  him  afterward  that  noth- 
ing worth  while  had  been  overlooked,  and  he 
could  refer  back  and  find  any  passage  unerr- 
ingly. 

17 


INTRODUCTION 

"Both  in  taste  and  temperament  he  wag 
morbid,  and  in  many  respects  abnormal  —  in 
the  great  development  of  his  genius  in  certain 
directions,  and  also  in  his  limitations  and  de- 
ficiencies in  other  lines.  His  nature  towered 
like  a  cloud-topping  mountain  on  one  side, 
while  on  others  it  was  not  only  undeveloped  — 
it  was  a  cavity!  I  understood  this  better,  per- 
haps, than  others  of  his  friends,  knowing  as  I 
did  the  pathology  of  such  natures,  and  for  that 
reason  our  intercourse  was  singularly  free  and 
candid,  for  Hearn  revealed  himself  to  me  with 
a  frankness  and  unconventionally  which  would 
have  startled  another.  I  never  judged  him  by 
conventional  standards.  I  listened  to  the  bril- 
liant, erratic,  intemperate  outpourings  of  his 
mind,  aware  of  his  eccentricities  without  allow- 
ing them  to  blind  me  to  the  beauty  and  value 
of  his  really  marvelous  nature.  For  example, 
he  would  bitterly  denounce  his  enemies  —  or 
fancied  enemies  —  for  he  had  an  obsession  of 
persecution  —  in  language  that  was  frightful 
to  listen  to — inventing  unheard-of  tortures 
for  those  whom  he  deemed  plotters  against 
him.  Yet  in  reality  he  was  as  gentle  and  as 
tender-hearted  as  a  woman  —  and  as  passion- 
18 


INTRODUCTION 

ately  affectionate.  But  there  was  an  almost 
feminine  jealousy  in  his  nature,  too,  and  a  sen- 
sitiveness that  was  exaggerated  to  a  degree 
that  caused  him  untold  suffering.  He  was 
singularly  and  unaffectedly  modest  about  his 
work  —  curiously  anxious  to  know  the  real 
opinion  of  those  whose  judgment  he  valued,  on 
any  work  which  he  had  done,  while  impatient 
of  flattery  or  '  lionizing.'  Yet  with  all  his  mod- 
esty he  had,  even  in  those  days  of  his  first  suc- 
cesses, a  high  and  proud  respect  for  his  work. 
He  was  too  good  a  critic  not  to  know  his  value; 
and  he  consistently  refused  to  cheapen  it  by 
allowing  it  to  appear  in  any  second-rate  me- 
dium —  I  mean,  any  of  his  literary  work,  as 
distinct  from  the  journalistic  matter  he  did 
for  his  daily  bread.  Nor  would  he  lower  him- 
self by  criticizing  any  book  or  poem  which  he 
did  not  consider  worthy  of  his  opinion.  Thus 
he  was  obliged,  in  spite  of  his  kind  nature, 
which  impelled  him  to  do  anything  which  a 
friend  might  ask,  to  refuse  to  criticize  books  of 
inferior  worth,  and  he  was  very  firm  and  digni- 
fied about  such  refusals.  He  would  not  debase 
his  pen  by  using  it  on  inferior  subjects. 
**  At  the  time  when  I  knew  him  best,  he  was 
19 


INTRODUCTION 

already  highly  esteemed  by  many  who  appre- 
ciated his  great  gifts,  while  others  regarded  him 
with  some  jealousy  and  would  gladly  have  seen 
him  put  down.  From  the  first  I  recognized  hir 
genius  so  clearly  that  he  used  to  laugh  at  me  foi 
my  faith  in  his  future  fame.  For  I  would  often 
predict  that  he  would  be  known  to  future  gen- 
erations as  one  of  the  great  writers  of  the  cen- 
tury, though  it  was  easy  to  foresee  that  he  would 
not  receive  full  recognition  in  his  life-time. 

"And  though  he  used  to  smile  at  my  enthu- 
siasm, he  himself  felt,  I  am  convinced,  the  same 
certainty  as  to  the  quality  of  his  gift,  the  ulti- 
mate fame  that  Fate  held  for  him.  It  was  this 
that  made  him  regard  his  work  with  a  reverent 
humility,  and  it  was  this  that  accounted  in  some 
degree  for  his  extraordinary  shyness,  which 
made  him  shrink  from  being  lionized  or  ex- 
ploited by  those  who,  at  that  time,  would  have 
been  glad  enough  to  entertain  him  and  make 
much  of  him,  for  he  had  already  begun  to  be 
quite  an  important  literary  person  in  the  circles 
here  which  cared  for  such  matters. 

"But  Hearn  fled  from  social  attentions  as 
from  the  plague.  He  was  by  nature  suspicious 
and  he  loathed  flattery  and  pretense. 


INTRODUCTION 

"His  sense  of  literary  and  artistic  values  was 
singularly  sure,  and  it  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  it  was  intuitive  —  a  sort  of  instinctive 
feeling  for  beauty  and  truth. 

"When  he  became  acquainted  with  the  work 
of  Herbert  Spencer,  —  through  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  friend  Ernest  Crosby  for  that  philosopher 
and  for  the  Darwinian  theory  of  evolution, 
which  we  were  all  discussing  with  deep  interest 
at  that  time  —  he  used  that  thinker's  philoso- 
phy as  a  foundation  upon  which  to  base  his 
marvelous  speculations  as  to  the  ultimate  de- 
velopment of  the  race  and  the  infinite  truths  of 
the  universe.  I  used  to  listen  in  wonder  while 
he  talked  by  the  hour  along  these  lines,  weav- 
ing the  most  beautiful  and  imaginative  visions 
of  what  might  be.  For  his  theory  of  the  uni- 
verse was  essentially  literary  rather  than  phil- 
osophical." 

It  was  to  Dr.  Matas  that  "Chita"  was  dedi- 
cated, not  only  as  a  token  of  the  warm  admi- 
ration and  affection  which  the  sensitive  soul  of 
Hearn  felt  for  the  broad-minded  young  phy- 
sician, but  as  an  acknowledgment  of  the  help 
Dr.  Matas  had  given  him  in  gathering  the  ma- 
terial for  the  setting  of  the  story.  The  physi- 

21 


INTRODUCTION 

cian's  cosmopolitan  rearing  and  his  scattered 
practice  among  French,  Spanish,  and  even 
Filipino  settlers  in  the  region  about  Grand'  Isle 
enabled  him  to  give  Hearn  in  each  instance 
the  appropriate  phraseology  in  the  dialect  of 
the  people  he  was  writing  about. 

Some  of  the  "Other  Fancies"  are  noteworthy 
for  special  reasons.  In  "A  River  Reverie"  one 
gets  an  odd  glimpse  of  Mark  Twain  reflected  in 
the  personality  of  the  dream-haunted  Irish- 
Greek,  who  handles  the  visit  of  the  humorist  hi 
so  unjournalistic  a  way.  How  ruthlessly  his 
recollections  of  the  old  river-captain  would  be 
excised  by  the  copy-reader  of  the  modern  news- 
paper! 

In  several  of  these  sketches  Hearn  gives  a 
picture  of  the  horrors  of  yellow  fever  which 
shows  even  more  clearly  than  his  letters  how 
vivid  was  the  impression  made  on  him  by  that 
summer  of  1878,  when  he  passed  through  the 
epidemic  with  only  an  attack  of  the  dengue, 
a  mild  form  of  the  tropical  plague. 

Others  of  these  sketches  show  the  influence 
of  contact  with  Spanish  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, and  the  strong  longing  for  the  tropics, 
which  seems  to  have  lasted  all  his  life. 


INTRODUCTION 

"Aida"  is,  of  course,  merely  the  story  of  the 
well-known  opera  by  Verdi.  Hearn  wrote  for 
the  Item,  during  the  opera  season  of  1880,  brief 
outlines  like  this  of  the  stories  of  several  of  the 
operas  played  at  the  French  Opera  House  that 
winter:  this  one  is  included  in  this  volume  only 
because  it  is  mentioned  among  the  "  Fantastics  " 
in  the  list  given  in  Dr,  George  Gould's  book, 
Concerning  Lafcadio  Hearn.  ' '  Hiouen-Thsang ' ' 
is  included  for  the  same  reason,  as  it  is  not 
strictly  a  "Fantastic." 

"The  Devil's  Carbuncle,"  ^besides  being  a 
translation,  is  not  a  "Fantastic,"  according  to 
Hearn's  definition  of  the  term:  it  is  not  a  story 
of  love  and  death;  it  is  a  story  of  greed  and 
death. 

"The  Post-Office"  is  much  more  breezy  and 
out-of-doors  than  any  of  the  "Fantastics,"  and 
does  not  properly  belong  with  them;  but  it 
is  so  charming  a  sketch  of  his  visit  to  Grand' 
Isle,  the  place  which  gave  him  the  material  for 
his  first  successful  original  story,  "Chita,"  that 
it  seems  worth  while  to  reproduce  it. 

It  has  been  almost  a  commonplace,  with 
writers  treating  of  Hearn's  development,  to 
date  from  this  visit  the  beginnings  of  his  inter- 
23 


INTRODUCTION 

est  in  far-away  lands.  But  they  mistake  in  as- 
signing a  late  date  for  his  delight  in  the  tropics 
and  his  longing  for  Japan.  His  articles  in  the 
Item  years  before  go  to  show  that  from  the  first 
it  was  almost  an  instinct  with  him  to  yearn  for 
glimpses  of  the  Orient  and  the  Spanish  Main. 
Throughout  the  volume  of  the  Item  for  1879  the 
column  headed  "Odds  and  Ends"  reveals  his 
interest  in  Spanish-American  countries.  It  is 
generally  shown  hi  translated  citations  or  quo- 
tations from  La  Raza  Latina. 

In  finding  these  cameo-like  studies  buried  in 
the  pages  of  the  newspapers  of  a  generation  ago, 
and  in  identifying  them  beyond  question  as 
Hearn's,  I  have  been  aided  by  Mr.  John  S.  Ken- 
dall and  by  my  daughter,  Ethel  Hutson,  who 
have  been  for  some  years  gathering  traces  of 
Hearn's  journalistic  activities  in  New  Orleans. 
To  Mr.  C.  G.  Stith,  of  the  New  Orleans  Item,  we 
are  indebted  for  the  rinding  of  the  first  two  or 
three  of  the  "Fantastics"  in  that  paper,  after 
we  had  located  Hearn's  work  in  the  Times 
Democrat. 

To  one  who  has  studied  his  way  of  expressing 
himself  in  his  imaginative  writings  the  internal 
evidence  would  be  quite  enough  to  prove  that 
24 


INTRODUCTION 

these  "Fantastics"  were  woven  in  the  brain- 
cells  of  Lafcadio  Hearn.  But  in  addition  to  this 
we  have  the  avowal  of  the  editor-in-chief  of  the 
Item,  elicited  by  the  praise  of  the  Claiborne 
Guardian.1 

1  In  the  issue  of  Sunday  evening,  September  19, 1880, 
appears  this  excerpt,  with  the  editor's  comment:  — 

"  FANTASTICS 


"Claiborne  Guardian. 

"We  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  read  a  series  of 
more  brilliant  articles  than  those  which  occasionally  ap- 
pear under  the  above  heading  in  that  bright  little  paper 
THE  CITY  ITEM.  The  writer,  with  a  perfect  command  of 
the  language,  unites  a  vivid  imagination.  His  fancy  is  as 
exuberant  as  the  growth  of  tropical  flowers,  and  is  as 
pleasing  as  glowing  and  fascinating.  We  always  turn  to 
the  editorial  page  for  'Fantastics'  when  we  receive  the 
ITEM.  Would  it  be  out  of  place  to  inquire  who  this  rare 
genius  is?  It  can't  be  that  grave  and  dignified  gentle- 
man, M.  F.  Bigney.  We  have  read  many  excellent 
sketches  from  his  pen,  but  never  anything  like  these 
pieces.  Who  is  the  writer  that  adds  another  to  the  many 
attractions  of  our  prosperous  and  worthy  exchange?" 

"We  gladly  comply,"  replies  the  ITEM  editorially, 
"with  the  request  of  our  appreciative  Claiborne  con- 
temporary. The  writer  of  'Fantastics'  is  Mr.  Lafcadio 
Hearne  [sic],  who  has  been  our  assistant  co-laborer  for 
nearly  three  years.  —  ED.  ITEM." 

25 


INTRODUCTION 

The  author  named  them  only  "Fantastics." 
We  have  given  to  each  its  separate  title,  as  in- 
dicated by  the  most  striking  feature  in  the 
story.  To  the  "Other  Fancies,"  which  we  have 
included  in  the  collection,  he  gave  the  titles  un- 
der which  they  now  appear,  and  some  of  them 
he  signed. 

CHARLES  WOODWARD  HUTSON. 


FANTASTICS  AND   OTHER  FANCIES 


^> 


FANTASTICS 
AND   OTHER  FANCIES 

ALL  IN  WHITE1 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  did  not  stay  long  in 
Havana.  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  terrible 
place  to  live  in.  Somehow,  in  spite  of  all  the 
tropical  brightness,  the  city  gave  me  the  idea 
of  a  huge  sepulchre  at  times.  One  feels  in  those 
narrow  streets  as  though  entombed.  Pretty 
women?  —  I  suppose  so,  yes;  but  I  saw  only 
one.  It  was  in  one  of  the  quaint  streets  which 
make  you  think  that  the  Spaniards  learned  to 
build  their  cities  from  the  Moors,  —  a  chasm 
between  lofty  buildings,  and  balconies  jutting 
out  above  to  break  the  view  of  the  narrow  strip 
of  blue  sky.  Nobody  was  in  the  street  except 
myself;  and  the  murmur  of  the  city's  life 
seemed  to  come  from  afar,  like  a  ghostly  whis- 
per. The  silence  was  so  strange  that  I  felt  as  if 
walking  on  the  pavement  of  a  church,  and  dis- 
turbing the  religious  quiet  with  my  footsteps. 
1  Item,  September  14,  1879. 
29 


FANTASTICS 

I  stopped  before  a  great  window  —  no  glass, 
but  iron  bars  only;  —  and  behind  the  iron  bars 
lay  the  only  beautiful  woman  I  saw  in  Havana 
by  daylight.  She  could  not  have  been  more 
than  eighteen,  —  a  real  Spanish  beauty, — 
dark,  bewitching,  an  oval  face  with  noble  fea- 
tures, and  long  eyelashes  resting  on  the  cheek. 
She  was  dead!  All  in  white,  —  like  the  phan- 
tom bride  of  the  German  tradition,  —  white 
robes,  white  satin  shoes,  and  one  white  tropical 
flower  in  her  black  hair,  shining  like  a  star.  I 
do  not  know  what  it  was;  but  its  perfume  came 
to  me  through  the  window,  sweet  and  strange. 
The  young  woman,  sleeping  there  all  in  white, 
against  the  darkness  of  the  silent  chamber 
within,  fascinated  me.  I  felt  as  if  it  was  not 
right  to  look  at  her  so  long;  yet  I  could  not 
help  it.  Candles  were  burning  at  her  head  and 
feet;  and  in  the  stillness  of  the  hot  air  their  yel- 
low flames  did  not  even  tremble.  Suddenly  I 
heard  a  heavy  tramping  at  the  end  of  the 
street.  A  battalion  of  Spanish  soldiers  were 
coming  towards  me.  There  was  no  means  of 
proceeding;  and  I  had  no  time  to  retreat.  The 
street  was  so  narrow  that  I  was  obliged  to  put 
my  back  to  the  wall  in  order  to  let  them  pass, 
3° 


ALL   IN  WHITE 

They  passed  in  dead  silence  —  I  only  heard  the 
tread  of  the  men,  mechanically  regular  and 
heavily  echoing.  They  were  all  in  white.  Every 
man  looked  at  me  as  he  passed  by;  and  every 
look  was  dark,  sinister,  suspicious.  I  was  anx- 
ious to  escape  those  thousands  of  Spanish  eyes; 
but  I  could  not  have  done  it  without  turn- 
ing my  face  to  the  wall.  I  do  not  think  one  of 
them  looked  at  the  dead  girl  at  all;  but  each 
one  looked  at  me,  and  forced  me  to  look  at  him. 
I  dared  not  smile,  —  not  one  of  the  swarthy 
faces  smiled.  The  situation  became  really  un- 
pleasant. It  was  like  one  of  those  nightmares 
in  which  you  are  obliged  to  witness  an  endless 
procession  of  phantoms,  each  one  of  whom 
compels  you  to  look  at  it.  If  I  had  even  heard 
a  single  carajo  Americano,  I  should  have  felt 
relieved;  but  all  passed  me  in  dead  silence.  I 
was  transpierced  by  the  black  steel  of  at  least 
two  thousand  Spanish  eyes,  and  every  eye 
looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  detected  in  some 
awful  crime.  Yet  why  they  did  not  look  at  that 
window  instead  of  looking  at  me,  I  cannot  tell. 
After  they  had  passed,  I  looked  an  instant  at 
the  dead  girl  again;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  —  a  cynical,  mocking 


FANTASTICS 

smile  about  her  lips.  She  was  well  avenged,  — 
if  her  consecrated  rest  had  been  disturbed  by 
my  heretic  eyes.  I  can  still  smell  the  white 
flower;  and  I  can  see  even  the  silk  stitches  in 
the  white  satin  shoes,  —  the  motionless  yellow 
tongues  of  the  candles,  —  the  thin  dead  face 
that  seemed  to  smile,  and  the  thousand  sinister 
faces  that  smiled  not,  and  dared  me  to  smile." 


THE  LITTLE  RED  KITTEN » 

THE  kitten  would  have  looked  like  a  small 
red  lion,  but  that  its  ears  were  positively  enor- 
mous,—  making  the  head  like  one  of  those 
little  demons  sculptured  in  mediaeval  stone- 
work which  have  wings  instead  of  ears.  It  ate 
beefsteak  and  cockroaches,  caterpillars  and 
fish,  chicken  and  butterflies,  mosquito-hawks 
and  roast  mutton,  hash  and  tumble-bugs, 
beetles  and  pigs'  feet,  crabs  and  spiders,  moths 
and  poached  eggs,  oysters  and  earthworms, 
ham  and  mice,  rats  and  rice  pudding,  —  until 
its  belly  became  a  realization  of  Noah's  Ark. 
On  this  diet  it  soon  acquired  strength  to  whip 
all  the  ancient  cats  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
also  to  take  under  its  protection  a  pretty  little 
salmon-colored  cat  of  the  same  sex,  which  was 
too  weak  to  defend  itself  and  had  been  unmer- 
cifully mauled  every  night  before  the  tawny 
sister  enforced  reform  in  the  shady  yard  of  the 
old  Creole  house.  The  red  kitten  was  not  very 
big,  but  was  very  solid  and  more  agile  than  a 
inonkey.  Its  flaming  emerald  eyes  were  always 

1  Item,  September  24,  1879.    Hearn's  own  title. 
33 


FANTASTICS 

watching,  and  its  enormous  ears  always  on  the 
alert;  and  woe  to  the  cat  who  dared  approach 
the  weak  little  sister  with  hostile  intentions. 
The  two  always  slept  together  —  the  little 
speckled  one  resting  its  head  upon  the  body  of 
its  protector;  and  the  red  kitten  licked  its  com- 
panion every  day  like  a  mother  washing  her 
baby.  Wherever  the  red  kitten  went  the  speck- 
led kitten  followed;  they  hunted  all  kinds  of 
creeping  things  together,  and  even  formed  a 
criminal  partnership  in  kitten  stealing.  One 
day  they  were  forcibly  separated;  the  red  kitten 
being  locked  up  in  the  closet  under  the  stairs  to 
keep  it  out  of  mischief  during  dinner  hours,  as 
it  had  evinced  an  insolent  determination  to 
steal  a  stuffed  crab  from  the  plate  of  Madame 
R.  Thus  temporarily  deprived  of  its  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend,  the  speckled  kitten 
unfortunately  wandered  under  a  rocking-chair 
violently  agitated  by  a  heavy  gentleman  who 
was  reading  the  "Bee";  and  with  a  sharp  little 
cry  of  agony  it  gave  up  its  gentle  ghost.  Every- 
body stopped  eating;  and  there  was  a  general 
outburst  of  indignation  and  sorrow.  The  heavy 
gentleman  got  very  red  in  the  face,  and  said  he 
had  not  intended  to  do  it.  "Tonnerre  d'une 
34 


THE  LITTLE  RED  KITTEN 

pipe;  —  nom  d'un  petit  bonhomme!" — he 
might  have  been  a  little  more  careful!  .  .  .  An 
hour  later  the  red  kitten  was  vainly  seeking  its 
speckled  companion  —  all  ears  and  eyes.  It 
uttered  strange  little  cries,  and  vainly  waited 
for  the  customary  reply.  Then  it  commenced 
to  look  everywhere  —  upstairs,  downstairs,  on 
the  galleries,  in  the  corners,  among  the  shrub- 
bery, never  supposing  in  its  innocent  mind  that 
a  little  speckled  body  was  lying  far  away  upon 
a  heap  of  garbage  and  ashes.  Then  it  became 
very  silent;  purring  when  offered  food,  but 
eating  nothing.  ...  At  last  a  sudden  thought 
seemed  to  strike  it.  It  had  never  seen  the  great 
world  which  rumbled  beyond  the  archway  of 
the  old  courtyard;  perhaps  its  little  sister  had 
wandered  out  there.  So  it  would  go  and  seek 
her.  For  the  first  time  it  wandered  beyond  the 
archway  and  saw  the  big  world  it  had  never 
seen  before  —  miles  of  houses  and  myriads  of 
people  and  great  cotton-floats  thundering  by, 
and  great  wicked  dogs  which  murder  kittens. 
But  the  little  red  one  crept  along  beside  the 
houses  in  the  narrow  strip  of  shadow,  some- 
times trembling  when  the  big  wagons  rolled 
Vast,  and  sometimes  hiding  in  doorways  when 
35 


FANTASTICS 

it  saw  a  dog,  but  still  bravely  seeking  the  lost 
sister.  ...  It  came  to  a  great  wide  street  —  five 
times  wider  than  the  narrow  street  before  the 
old  Creole  house;  and  the  sun  was  so  hot,  so 
hot.  The  little  creature  was  so  tired  and  hun- 
gry, too.  Perhaps  somebody  would  help  it  to 
find  the  way.  But  nobody  seemed  to  notice  the 
red  kitten,  with  its  funny  ears  and  great  bright 
eyes.  It  opened  its  little  pink  mouth  and  cried; 
but  nobody  stopped.  It  could  not  understand 
that.  Whenever  it  had  cried  that  way  at  home, 
somebody  had  come  to  pet  it.  Suddenly  a  fire- 
engine  came  roaring  up  the  street,  and  a  great 
crowd  of  people  were  running  after  it.  Then  the 
kitten  got  very,  very  frightened;  and  tried  to 
run  out  of  the  way,  but  its  poor  little  brain  was 
so  confused  and  there  was  so  much  noise  and 
shouting.  .  .  .  Next  morning  two  little  bodies 
lay  side  by  side  on  the  ashes  —  miles  away 
from  the  old  Creole  house.  The  little  tawny 
kitten  had  found  its  speckled  sister. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  ALL  SAINTS1 

THE  Night  of  All  Saints  —  a  night  clear  and 
deep  and  filled  with  a  glory  of  white  moon- 
light. 

And  a  low  sweet  Wind  came  up  from  the 
West,  and  wandered  among  the  tombs,  whis- 
pering to  the  Shadows. 

And  there  were  flowers  among  the  tombs. 

They  looked  into  the  face  of  the  moon,  and 
from  them  a  thousand  invisible  perfumes  arose 
into  the  night. 

And  the  Wind  blew  upon  the  flowers  until 
their  soft  eyelids  began  to  close  and  their  per- 
fume grew  fainter  in  the  moonlight.  And  the 
Wind  sought  in  vain  to  arouse  them  from  the 
dreamless  sleep  into  which  they  were  sinking. 

For  the  perfume  of  a  flower  is  but  the  pres- 
ence of  its  invisible  soul;  and  the  flowers 
drooped  in  the  moonlight,  and  at  the  twelfth 
hour  they  closed  their  eyes  forever  and  the  in- 
cense of  their  lives  passed  away  from  them. 

Then  the  Wind  mourned  awhile  among  the 
old  white  tombs;  and  whispered  to  the  cypres? 
1  Item,  November  i,  1879.    Hearn's  own  title. 
37 


FANTASTICS 

trees  and  to  the  Shadows,  "Were  not  these  of- 
ferings?" 

And  the  Shadows  and  the  cypresses  bowed 
weirdly  in  mysterious  reply.  But  the  Wind 
asked,  To  Whom  ?  And  the  Shadows  kept  si- 
lence with  the  cypresses. 

Then  the  Wind  entered  like  a  ghost  into  the 
crannies  of  the  white  sepulchres,  and  whis- 
pered in  the  darkness,  and  coming  forth  shud- 
dered and  mourned. 

And  the  Shadows  shuddered  also;  and  the 
cypresses  sighed  in  the  night. 

"It  is  a  mystery,"  sobbed  the  Wind,  "and 
passeth  my  understanding.  Wherefore  these 
offerings  to  those  who  dwell  hi  the  darkness 
where  even  dreams  are  dead?" 

But  the  trees  and  the  Shadows  answered  not 
and  the  hollow  tombs  uttered  no  voice. 

Then  came  a  Wind  out  of  the  South,  murmur- 
ing to  the  orange  groves,  and  lifting  the  long 
tresses  of  the  palms  with  the  breath  of  his 
wings,  and  bearing  back  to  the  ancient  place  of 
tombs  the  souls  of  a  thousand  flowers.  And  the 
Wind  of  the  South  whispered  to  the  souls  of  the 
flowers,  "Answer,  little  spirits,  answer  my 
mourning  brother." 

38 


THE  NIGHT  OF  ALL  SAINTS 

And  the  flower-souls  answered,  making  fra- 
grant all  the  white  streets  of  the  white  city  of 
the  dead:  — 

"We  are  the  offerings  of  love  bereaved  to  the 
All-loving,  —  the  sacrifices  of  the  fatherless  to 
the  All-father.  We  know  not  of  the  dead,  — 
the  Infinite  secret  hath  not  been  revealed  to  us; 
—  we  know  only  that  they  sleep  under  the  eye 
of  Hun  who  never  sleeps.  Thou  hast  seen  the 
flowers  die;  but  their  perfumes  live  in  the  wings 
of  the  winds  and  sweeten  all  God's  world.  Is  it 
not  so  with  that  fragrance  of  good  deeds,  which 
liveth  after  the  deed  hath  been  done,  —  or  the 
memories  of  dead  loves  which  soften  the  hearts 
of  the  living?  " 

And  the  cypresses  together  with  the  Shad- 
ows bowed  answeringly;  and  the  West  Wind, 
ceasing  to  mourn,  spread  his  gauzy  wings  in 
flight  toward  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

The  moon,  sinking,  made  longer  the  long 
shadows;  the  South  Wind  caressed  the  cy- 
presses, and,  bearing  with  him  ghosts  of  the 
flowers,  rose  in  flight  toward  the  dying  fires  of 
the  stars. 


THE  DEVIL'S  CARBUNCLE*1 

RICARDO  PALMA,  the  Lima  correspondent  of  l& 
Raza  Latina,  has  been  collecting  some  curious  South 
American  traditions  which  date  back  to  the  Spanish 
Conquest.  The  following  legend,  entitled  "El  Car  bunch 
del  Diablo,"  is  one  of  these:  — 

WHEN  Juan  de  la  Torre,  one  of  the  celebrated 
Conguistadores,  discovered  and  seized  an  im- 
mense treasure  in  one  of  the  huacas  near  the 
city  of  Lima,  the  Spanish  soldiers  became 
seized  with  a  veritable  mania  for  treasure- 
seeking  among  the  old  forts  and  cemeteries  of 
the  Indians.  Now  there  were  there  ballesteros 
belonging  to  the  company  of  Captain  Diego 
Gumiel,  who  had  formed  a  partnership  for  the 
purpose  of  seeking  fortunes  among  the  huacas 
of  Miraflores,  and  who  had  already  spent  weeks 
upon  weeks  in  digging  for  treasure  without  find- 
ing the  smallest  article  of  value. 

On  Good  Friday,  in  the  year  1547,  without 
any  respect  for  the  sanctity  of  the  day,  —  for 
to  human  covetousness  nothing  is  sacred,  — 

-•   *  Item,  November  2,  1879.  Hearn's  own  title.  • 
40 


THE  DEVIL'S  CARBUNCLE 

the  three  ballesteros,  after  vainly  sweating  and 
panting  all  morning  and  afternoon,  had  not 
found  anything  except  a  mummy  —  not  even 
a  trinket  or  bit  of  pottery  worth  three  pesetas. 
Thereupon  they  gave  themselves  over  to  the 
Father  of  Evil  —  cursing  all  the  Powers  of 
Heaven,  and  blaspheming  so  horribly  that  the 
Devil  himself  was  obliged  to  stop  his  ears  with 
cotton. 

By  this  time  the  sun  had  set;  and  the  adven- 
turers were  preparing  to  return  to  Lima,  curs- 
ing the  niggardly  Indians  for  the  unpardonable 
stupidity  of  not  having  been  entombed  in  state 
upon  beds  of  solid  gold  or  silver,  when  one  of 
the  Spaniards  gave  the  mummy  so  ferocious  a 
kick  that  it  rolled  a  considerable  distance.  A 
glimmering  jewel  dropped  from  the  skeleton, 
and  rolled  slowly  after  the  mummy. 

"Canariol"  cried  one  of  the  soldiers,  "what 
kind  of  a  taper  is  that?  Santa  Maria  /  what  a 
glorious  carbuncle!" 

And  he  was  about  to  walk  toward  the  jewel, 
when  the  one  who  had  kicked  the  corpse,  and 
who  was  a  great  bully,  held  him  back  with  the 
words:  — 

"Halt,  comrade!  May  I  never  be  sad  if  that 


FANTASTICS 

carbuncle  does  not  belong  to  me;  for  it  was  I 
who  found  the  mummy! 

"  May  the  Devil  carry  thee  away !  I  first  saw 
it  shine,  and  may  I  die  before  any  other  shall 
possess  it!" 

"Cepos  quedos!"  thundered  the  third,  un- 
sheathing his  sword,  and  making  it  whistle 
round  his  head.  "  So  I  am  nobody?  " 

"Caracolines!  not  even  the  Devil's  wife  shall 
wring  it  from  me,"  cried  the  bully,  unsheathing 
his  dagger. 

And  a  tremendous  fight  began  among  the 
three  comrades. 

The  following  day  some  Mitayos  found  the 
dead  body  of  one  of  the  combatants,  and  the 
other  two  riddled  with  wounds,  begging  for  a 
confessor.  Before  they  died  they  related  the 
story  of  the  carbuncle,  and  told  how  it  illu- 
mined the  combat  with  a  sinister  and  lurid  light. 
But  the  carbuncle  was  never  found  after.  Tra- 
dition ascribes  its  origin  to  the  Devil;  and  it  is 
said  that  each  Good  Friday  night  travelers 
may  perceive  its  baleful  rays  twinkling  from 
the  huaca  Juliana,  rendered  famous  by  this 
legend. 


LES  COULISSES* 

SOUVENIRS   OF  A   STRAKOSCH   OPERA   NIGHT 

SURELY  it  cannot  have  been  a  poet  who  first 
inspired  the  popular  mind  with  that  widely 
spread  and  deeply  erroneous  belief  that  "be- 
hind the  scenes"  all  is  hollow  mockery  and 
emptiness  and  unsightliness;  —  that  the  come- 
liness of  the  pliant  limbs  which  move  to  music 
before  the  starry  row  of  shielded  lights  is  due 
to  a  judicious  distribution  of  sawdust;  and  that 
our  visions  of  fan-  faces  are  created  by  the  magic 
contained  in  pots  of  ointment  and  boxes  of 
pearl  powder  of  which  the  hiding-places  are 
known  only  to  those  duly  initiated  into  the 
awful  mysteries  of  the  Green  Room. 

No;  the  Curtain  is  assuredly  the  Veil  which 
hides  from  unromantic  eyes  the  mysteries  of  a 
veritable  Fairy- World,  —  not  a  fairyland  so 
clearly  and  sharply  outlined  as  the  artistic  fan- 
tasies of  Christmas  picture-books,  but  a  fairy- 
land of  misty  landscapes  and  dim  shadows  and 
bright  shapes  moving  through  the  vagueness  of 
mystery.  There  is  really  a  world  of  stronger  en- 
1  Item,  December  6,  1879.  Hearn's  own  title. 
43 


FANTASTICS 

chantment  behind  than  before  the  scenes;  — 
all  that  movement  of  white  limbs  and  fair  faces 
—  that  shifting  of  shadowy  fields  and  plains, 
those  changing  visions  of  mountain  and  wold, 
of  towers  that  disappear  as  in  tales  of  knight- 
errantry,  and  cottages  transformed  into  pal- 
aces as  in  the  "Arabian  Nights"  —  is  but  a 
small  part  of  the  great  wizard-work  nightly 
wrought  by  invisible  hands  behind  the  Cur- 
tain. And  when,  through  devious  corridors 
and  dimly-lighted  ways,  —  between  rows  of 
chambers  through  whose  doors  one  catches 
sudden  glimpses  of  the  elves  attiring  in  purple 
and  silver,  in  scarlet  and  gold,  for  the  gaslit  holi- 
day among  canvas  woods  and  flowing  brooks  of 
muslin,  mystic,  wonderful,  —  thou  shalt  ar- 
rive within  the  jagged  borders  of  the  Unknown 
World  itself  to  behold  the  Circles  of  bright 
seats  curving  afar  off  in  atmospheres  of  artifi- 
cial light,  and  the  Inhabitants  of  those  Circles 
become  themselves  involuntary  Actors  for  the 
amusement  of  the  lesser  audience,  then  verily 
doth  the  charm  begin.  There  is  no  disillusion 
as  yet.  The  Isis  of  the  drama  has  lifted  her 
outer  veil;  but  a  veil  yet  more  impenetrable  re- 
mains to  conceal  the  mystery  of  her  face.  The 
44 


LES  COULISSES 

Heart  of  all  that  Mimic  Life  — mimic  yet 
warm  and  real  —  throbs  about  thee,  but  dost 
thou  understand  its  pulsations?  Thou  art  in 
the  midst  of  a  secret,  in  the  innermost  chamber 
of  the  witch-workers  —  yet  the  witchcraft  re- 
mains. Thou  hast  approached  too  near  the 
Fata  Morgana  of  theatrical  enchantment  —  all 
has  vanished  or  tumbled  into  spectral  ruin. 
Fragments  of  castles  and  antiquated  cities  — 
torn  and  uneven  remnants  of  pictures  of  vari- 
ous centuries  huddled  together  in  mystic  an- 
achronism —  surround  and  overshadow  thee; 
but  to  comprehend  that  harmonious  whole, 
thou  must  retire  to  the  outer  circles  of  the  shin- 
ing temple,  before  the  tall  Veil.  About  thee  it 
is  a  world  wrought  of  many  broken  worlds;  — 
a  world  of  picturesque  ruin  like  the  moon  in 
heaven  —  a  world  of  broken  lights  and  shad- 
ows and  haunted  glooms  —  a  wild  dream  —  a 
work  of  goblinry.  Content  thyself,  seek  not  dis- 
illusion ;  for  to  the  gods  of  this  mysterious  sphere 
human  curiosity  is  the  greatest  of  abomina- 
tions. Satisfy  thyself  with  the  knowledge  that 
thou  art  in  Fairyland;  and  that  it  is  not  given 
to  mortals  to  learn  all  the  ways  of  elves.  What 
though  the  woods  be  mockeries,  and  the  cas- 
45 


FANTASTICS 

ties  be  thinner  than  Castles  of  Spain,  and  the 
white  statues  fair  Emptinesses  like  the  elf 
women  of  Northern  dreams?  —  the  elves  and 
gnomes  and  fairies  themselves  are  real  and  pal- 
pable and  palpitant  with  the  ruddy  warmth  of 
life. 

Perhaps  thou  thinkest  of  those  antique  the- 
atres —  marble  cups  set  between  the  breasts 
of  sweetly-curving  hills,  with  the  cloud-fres- 
coed dome  of  the  Infinite  for  a  ceiling,  and  for 
scenery  nature's  richest  charms  of  purple  moun- 
tain and  azure  sea  and  emerald  groves  of  olive. 
But  that  beautiful  materialism  of  the  ancient 
theatre  charmed  not  as  the  mystery  of  ours,  — 
a  mystery  too  delicate  to  suffer  the  eye  of  Day; 
—  a  mystery  wrought  by  fairies  who  dare  only 
toil  by  night.  One  sunbeam  would  destroy  the 
charm  of  this  dusky  twilight  world.  Strange! 
how  the  mind  wanders  in  this  strange  place! 
Yet  it  is  easier  to  dream  of  two  thousand  years 
ago  than  to  recollect  that  thou  livest  in  the  ma- 
terial present,  —  that  only  a  painted  ceiling 
lies  between  thy  vision  and  the  amethystine 
heaven  of  stars  above,  and  that  only  a  wall  of 
plastered  brick  separates  thee  from  the  streets 
of  New  Orleans  or  the  gardens  westward  where 
46 


LES  COULISSES 

the  bananas  are  nodding  their  heads  under  the 
moon.  For  the  genii  of  this  inner  world  are 
weaving  their  spells  about  thee.  Figures  of 
other  centuries  pass  before  thy  eyes,  as  in  the 
steel  mirror  of  a  wizard:  —  lords  of  Italian 
cities  gorgeous  as  Emperor-moths,  captains  of 
free  companies  booted  and  spurred,  phantoms, 
one  may  fancy,  of  fair  women  whose  portraits 
hang  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery,  and  prelates  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Did  Macbeth's  witches  ever 
perform  greater  magic  than  this?  —  a  series  of 
tableaux  after  Racinet  animated  by  some  elfish 
art?  If  the  human  character  of  the  witchery 
does  not  betray  itself  by  a  pretty  anachro- 
nism!—  some  intermingling  of  the  costumes  of 
the  sixteenth  century  with  those  of  the  sev- 
enteenth, a  sacrifice  of  history  to  the  beauty 
of  woman,  —  the  illusion  remains  unbroken. 
Thou  art  living,  by  magic,  in  the  age  of  Lorenzo 
di  Medici;  and  is  it  strange  that  they  should 
address  thee  in  the  Italian  tongue? 

There  is  an  earthquake  of  applauding,  the 
Circles  of  seats  are  again  hidden,  and  this  world 
of  canvas  and  paint  is  tumbling  about  thy  ears. 
The  spell  is  broken  for  a  moment  by  Beings 
garbed  in  the  everyday  attire  of  the  nineteenth 
47 


FANTASTICS 

century,  who  have  devoted  themselves  to  the 
work  of  destruction  and  reconstruction,  —  to 
whom  dreamers  are  an  abomination  and  idlers 
behind  the  scenes  a  vexation  of  spirit.  Va  t'en, 
inseq'  de  bois  de  lit  I 

Aye,  thou  mayst  well  start!  —  thou  hast 
seen  her  before.  Where?  —  when?  In  a  little 
French  store,  not  very,  very  far  from  the  old 
Creole  Opera  House.  This  enchantment  of  the 
place  has  transformed  her  into  a  fairy/  Ah, 
thou  marvelest  that  she  can  be  so  pretty;  — 
nor  Shakespeare's  Viola  nor  Gautier's  Graci- 
osa  were  fairer  to  look  upon  than  this  dream  of 
white  grace  and  pliant  comeliness  in  the  garb  of 
dead  centuries.  And  yet  another  and  another 
Creole  girl,  —  familiar  faces  to  the  dwellers 
in  the  Quaint  Places  of  New  Orleans.  What  is 
the  secret  of  that  strange  enchantment  which 
teaches  us  that  the  modest  everyday  robe  of 
black  merino  may  be  but  the  chrysalis-shell 
within  which  God's  own  butterflies  are  hidden? 

Suddenly  through  the  motley  rout  of  princes 
and  princesses,  of  captains  and  conspirators,  of 
soldiers  and  priests,  of  courtiers  and  dukes, 
there  comes  a  vision  of  white  fairies ; — these  be 
the  Damosels  of  the  Pirouette.  Thou  mayest 
48 


LES  COULISSES 

watch  them  unobserved;  for  the  other  beings 
heed  them  not;  —  Cophetua-like,  the  King  in 
his  coronation  robes  is  waltzing  with  a  pretty 
Peasant  Girl;  and  like  Christina  of  Spam,  the 
Queen  is  tete-a-tete  with  a  soldier.  The  danc- 
ers give  the  impression  of  something  aerial, 
ethereal,  volatile,  —  something  which  rests  and 
flies  but  walks  not,  —  some  species  of  splendid 
fly  with  wings  half-open.  The  vulgar  Idea  of 
Sawdust  vanishes  before  the  reality  of  those 
slender  and  pliant  limbs.  They  are  preparing 
for  the  dance  with  a  series  of  little  exercises 
which  provoke  a  number  of  charming  images 
and  call  out  all  the  supple  graces  of  the  figure; 
—  it  is  Atalanta  preparing  to  pursue  Hippo- 
menes;  it  is  a  butterfly  shaking  its  wings;  it  is 
a  white  bird  pluming  itself  with  noiseless  skill. 
But  when  the  Terpsichorean  flight  is  over,  and 
the  theatre  shakes  with  applause;  while  the 
dancers  shrink  panting  and  exhausted  into 
some  shadowy  hiding-place,  breathing  more 
hurriedly  than  a  wrestler  after  a  long  bout,  — 
thou  wilt  feel  grateful  to  the  humane  spirits 
who  break  the  applause  with  kindly  hisses,  and 
rebuke  the  ignorance  which  seeks  only  its  own 
pleasure  in  cries  of  encore. 
49 


FANTASTICS 

And  the  Asmodean  Prompter  who  moves  the 
dramatic  strings  that  agitate  all  these  Puppets 
of  mimic  passion,  whose  sonorous  tones  pene- 
trate all  the  recesses  of  the  mysterious  scenery 
without  being  heard  before  the  footlights,  re- 
sumes his  faithful  task;  —  the  story  of  har- 
mony and  tragedy  is  continued  by  the  orches- 
tra and  the  singers,  while  a  Babel  of  many 
tongues  is  heard  among  the  wooden  rocks  and 
the  canvas  trees  and  the  silent  rivers  of  muslin. 
But  little  canst  thou  reck  of  the  mimic  opera. 
That  is  for  those  who  sit  in  the  outer  circles. 
The  music  of  the  many-toned  Opera  of  Lif  e  en- 
velops and  absorbs  the  soul  of  the  stranger,  — 
teaching  him  that  the  acting  behind  the  Cur- 
tain is  not  all  a  mimicry  of  the  Real,  but  in 
truth  a  melodrama  of  visible,  tangible,  sentient 
life,  which  must  endure  through  many  thou- 
sand scenes  until  that  Shadow,  who  is  stronger 
than  Love,  shall  put  out  the  lights,  and  ring 
down  the  vast  and  sable  Curtain.  And  thus 
dreaming,  thou  findest  thyself  again  in  the 
streets,  whitened  by  the  moon!  Lights,  fairies, 
kings,  and  captains  are  gone.  Ah!  thou  hast 
not  been  dreaming,  friend;  but  the  hearts  of 
those  who  have  beheld  Fairyland  are  heavy. 


THE  STRANGER1 

THE  Italian  had  kept  us  all  spellbound  for 
hours,  while  a  great  yellow  moon  was  climbing 
higher  and  higher  above  the  leaves  of  the  ba- 
nanas that  nodded  weirdly  at  the  windows. 
Within  the  great  hall  a  circle  of  attentive  lis- 
teners —  composed  of  that  motley  mixture  of 
the  wanderers  of  all  nations,  such  as  can  be 
found  only  in  New  Orleans,  and  perhaps  Mar- 
seilles —  sat  in  silence  about  the  lamplit  table, 
riveted  by  the  speaker's  dark  eyes  and  rich 
voice.  There  was  a  natural  music  in  those 
tones;  the  stranger  chanted  as  he  spoke  like  a 
wizard  weaving  a  spell.  And  speaking  to  each 
one  in  the  tongue  of  his  own  land,  he  told  them 
of  the  Orient.  For  he  had  been  a  wanderer  in 
many  lands;  and  afar  off,  touching  the  farther 
horn  of  the  moonlight  crescent,  lay  awaiting 
him  a  long,  graceful  vessel  with  a  Greek  name, 
which  would  unfurl  her  white  wings  for  flight 
with  the  first  ruddiness  of  morning. 

"I  see  that  you  are  a  smoker,"  observed  the 
stranger  to  his  host  as  he  rose  to  go.  "May  I 
1  Item,  April  17,  1880. 


FANTASTICS 

have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  you  with  a 
Turkish  pipe?  I  brought  it  from  Constantino- 
ple." 

It  was  moulded  of  blood-red  clay  after  a 
fashion  of  Moresque  art,  and  fretted  about  its 
edges  with  gilded  work  like  the  ornamentation 
girdling  the  minarets  of  a  mosque.  And  a  faint 
perfume,  as  of  -the  gardens  of  Damascus,  clung 
to  its  gaudy  bowl,  whereon  were  deeply  stamped 
mysterious  words  in  the  Arabian  tongue. 

* 
*       * 

•  The  voice  had  long  ceased  to  utter  its  musical 
syllables.  The  guests  had  departed;  the  lamps 
were  extinguished  within.  A  single  ray  of 
moonlight  breaking  through  the  shrubbery 
without  fell  upon  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  breath- 
ing out  their  perfumed  souls  into  the  night. 
Only  the  host  remained  —  dreaming  of  moons 
larger  than  ours,  and  fiercer  summers;  minarets 
white  and  keen,  piercing  a  cloudless  sky,  and 
the  many-fountained  pleasure-places  of  the 
East.  And  the  pipe  exhaled  its  strange  and 
mystical  perfume,  like  the  scented  breath  of  a 
summer's  night  in  the  rose-gardens  of  a  Sul- 
tan. Above,  in  deeps  of  amethyst,  glimmered 
52 


THE  STRANGER 

the  everlasting  lamps  of  heaven;  and  from  afar, 
the  voice  of  a  muezzin  seemed  to  cry,  in  tones 
liquidly  sweet  as  the  voice  of  the  stranger  — 
"All  ye  who  are  about  to  sleep,  commend  your 
souls  to  Him  who  never  sleeps." 


Y  PORQUE?1 

"An,  caballero"  said  the  Spanish  lady,  with 
a  pretty  play  of  fan  and  eye  as  she  spoke,  "you 
will  not  return  to  Mexico,  the  beautiful  city?  " 

"No,  senorita"  replied  the  young  man  ad- 
dressed, a  handsome  boy,  about  twenty-two 
years  old,  olive-skinned  and  graceful,  with 
black  curly  hair,  that  had  those  bluish  lights 
one  sees  in  the  plumage  of  a  raven. 

"  Y  porgue?"  asked  the  girl,  laying  aside  her 
fan  for  a  moment,  and  concentrating  all  the 
deep  fire  of  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

The  boy  did  not  answer.  He  made  an  effort 
to  speak,  and  turned  his  head  aside.  There  was 
a  momentary  lull  in  the  conversation.  Suddenly 
he  burst  into  tears,  and  left  the  room. 


The  beautiful  city!  Ah!  how  well  he  remem- 
bered it!    The  mighty  hills  sleeping  in  their 
eternal    winding-sheets   of    snow,    the   azure 
heaven  and  the  bright  lake  rippled  by  mountain 
winds,  the  plaza  and  its  familiar  sights  and 
1  Item,  April  17,  1880. 
54 


Y  PORQUE 

sounds.  Y  porque?  The  question  brought  up 
all  the  old  bright  memories,  and  the  present  for 
the  moment  melted  away,  and  the  dream  of  a 
Mexican  night  rose  in  ghostliness  before  him. 
He  stood  again  within  an  ancient  street, 
quaint  with  the  quaintness  of  another  century, 
and  saw  the  great  windows  of  the  hospitable 
Spanish  residence  at  which  he  had  been  so  often 
received  as  a  son.  Again  he  heard  the  long 
chant  of  the  sereno  in  the  melancholy  silence; 
again  he  saw  the  white  stars  glimmering  like 
lamps  above  the  towers  of  the  cathedral.  The 
windows  were  tall  and  large,  and  barred  with 
bars  of  iron;  and  there  were  lights  in  one  of 
them  —  nickering  taper-lights  that  made  mov- 
ing shadows  on  the  wall.  And  within  the  circle 
of  the  tapers,  a  young  girl  lay  all  in  white  with 
hands  crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  flowers  in 
the  dark  hair.  He  remembered  all  with  that 
terrible  minuteness  agony  lends  to  observa- 
tion —  even  how  the  flickering  of  the  tapers 
played  with  the  shadows  of  the  silky  eyelashes, 
making  the  lids  seem  to  quiver,  as  though  that 
heart,  to  which  all  his  hopes  and  aims  and  love 
had  been  trusted,  had  not  forever  ceased  to 
beat.  Again  the  watchman  solemnly  chanted 
55 


FANTASTICS 

the  hour  of  the  night,  with  words  of  Spanish 
piety;  and  far  in  the  distance  that  weird  moun- 
tain which  ancient  Mexican  fancy  called  "The 
White  Lady,"  and  modern  popular  imagina- 
tion, "The  Dead  One,"  lay  as  a  corpse  with 
white  arms  crossed  upon  its  bosom,  in  awful 
mockery  of  the  eternal  sleep. 


A  DREAM  OF  KITES  l 

LOOKING  out  into  the  clear  blue  of  the  night 
from  one  of  those  jutting  balconies  which  con- 
stitute a  summer  luxury  in  the  Creole  city,  the 
eye  sometimes  marks  the  thin  black  threads 
which  the  telegraph  wires  draw  sharply  against 
the  sky.  We  observed  last  evening  the  infin- 
itely extending  lines  of  the  vast  web  which  the 
Electric  Spider  has  spun  about  the  world;  and 
the  innumerable  wrecks  of  kites  fluttering 
thereupon,  like  the  bodies  of  gaudy  flies — 
strange  lines  of  tattered  objects  extending  far 
into  the  horizon  and  tracking  out  the  course  of 
the  electric  messengers  beyond  the  point  at 
which  the  slender  threads  cease  to  remain  vis- 
ible. 

How  fantastic  the  forms  of  these  poor  tat- 
tered wrecks,  when  the  uniform  tint  of  night 
robs  them  of  their  color,  and  only  defines  their 
silhouettes  against  the  sky!  —  some  swinging 
to  and  fro  wearily,  like  thin  bodies  of  malefac- 
tors mummified  by  sunheat  upon  their  gibbeta 
—  some  wildly  fluttering  as  hi  the  agony  of  de- 
1  Item,  June  18,  1880. 
57 


FANTASTICS 

spair  and  death  —  some  dancing  grotesquely 
upon  their  perches  like  flying  goblins  —  some 
like  impaled  birds,  with  death-stiffened  wings, 
motionlessly  attached  to  their  wire  snare,  and 
glaring  with  painted  eyes  upon  the  scene  below 
as  in  a  stupor  of  astonishment  at  their  untimely 
fate. 

All  these  represented  the  destruction  of  child- 
ish ambitions  —  each  the  wreck  of  some  boyish 
pleasure.  Many  were  doubtless  wept  for,  and 
dreamed  of  afterward  regretfully  on  wet  pil- 
lows. And  stretching  away  into  the  paler  blue 
of  the  horizon  we  looked  upon  the  interminable 
hues  of  irregular  dots  they  made  against  it  and 
remembered  that  each  little  dot  represented 
some  little  pang. 

Then  it  was  natural  that  we  should  meditate 
a  little  upon  the  vanity  of  the  ways  in  which 
these  childish  losses  had  been  borne.  The  little 
owners  of  the  poor  kites  had  hearts  whose  fibre 
differed  more  than  that  of  the  kites  themselves. 
Some  might  weep,  but  some  doubtless  laughed 
with  childish  heroism,  and  soon  forgot  their 
loss;  some  doubtless  thought  the  world  was  all 
askew,  and  that  telegraph  wires  ought  never  to 
have  been  invented;  some,  considering  criti- 
58 


A  DREAM  OF  KITES 

cally  the  question  of  cause  and  effect,  resolved 
as  young  philosophers  to  profit  by  their  experi- 
ence, and  seek  similar  pleasures  thereafter 
where  telegraph  wires  ensnared  not;  while 
some,  perhaps,  profited  not  at  all,  but  only 
made  new  kites  and  abandoned  them  to  the 
roguish  wind,  which  again  traitorously  deliv- 
ered them  up  to  the  insatiable  enemies  of  kites 
and  birds. 

Is  it  not  said  that  the  child  is  the  father  of 
the  man? 

And  as  we  sat  there  in  the  silence  with  the 
stars  burning  in  the  purple  deeps  of  the  sum- 
mer night  above  us,  we  dreamed  of  the  kites 
which  children  of  a  larger  growth  fly  in  the 
face  of  heaven  —  toys  of  love  and  faith — toys 
of  ambition  and  of  folly  —  toys  of  grotesque 
resolve  and  flattering  ideals  —  toys  of  vain 
dreams  and  vain  expectation  —  the  kites  of 
human  Hope,  gaudy-colored  or  gray,  richly 
tinseled  or  humbly  simple  —  rising  and  soar- 
ing and  tossing  on  the  fickle  winds  of  the  world, 
only  to  become  entangled  at  last  in  that  mighty 
web  of  indissoluble  and  everlasting  threads 
which  the  Weird  Sisters  spin  for  all  of  us. 


59 


HEREDITARY  MEMORIES1 

"I  WAS  observing,"  continued  the  Doctor, 
"that  it  very  frequently  happens  that  upon 
seeing  or  hearing  something  new  for  the  first 
time,  —  that  is,  something  entirely  new  to  us, 
—  we  feel  a  surprise,  not  caused  by  the  novelty 
of  that  which  we  see  or  hear,  but  by  a  very  curi- 
ous echo  in  the  mind.  I  say  echo.  I  would  do 
better  to  use  the  word  memory-echo.  It  seems 
to  us,  although  we  know  positively  we  have 
never  seen  or  heard  of  this  new  thing  in  our 
mortal  lives,  that  we  heard  or  saw  it  in  some  in- 
finitely remote  period.  An  old  Latin  writer  con- 
sidered this  phenomenon  to  be  a  proof  of  the 
theory  of  Preexistence.  A  Buddhist  would  tell 
you  that  the  soul,  through  all  its  wanderings  of 
a  million  years,  retains  faint  memories  of  all  it 
has  seen  or  heard  in  each  transmigration  and 
that  each  of  us  now  living  in  the  flesh  possesses 
dim  and  ghostly  recollections  of  things  heard 
and  seen  aeons  before  our  birth.  That  the  phe- 
nomenon exists  there  can  be  no  doubt.  I  am 
1  Hem,  July  22,  1880. 
60 


HEREDITARY  MEMORIES 

not  a  believer  in  Buddhism  nor  in  the  soul;  but 
I  attribute  the  existence  of  these  vague  mem- 
ories to  hereditary  brain  impressions." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Doctor?"  asked  one  of 
the  boarders. 

"Why,  sir,  I  mean  that  a  memory  may  be 
inherited  just  like  a  mole,  a  birthmark,  a  phys- 
ical or  a  moral  characteristic.  Our  brains,  as 
a  clever  writer  has  expressed  it,  are  like  the 
rocks  of  the  Sinaitic  valley,  all  covered  over 
with  inscriptions  written  there  by  the  long  car- 
avans of  Thought.  Each  impression  received 
upon  the  brain  through  the  medium  of  the 
senses  leaves  there  a  hieroglyphic  inscription, 
which,  although  invisible  under  the  microscope, 
is  nevertheless  material  and  real.  Why  should 
not  these  hieroglyphs  of  the  parent  brain  reap- 
pear in  the  brain  of  the  child?  —  fainter  and 
less  decipherable  to  the  eyes  of  the  memory, 
yet  not  so  faint  as  to  be  wholly  lost." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  moon  rose 
higher;  the  bananas  did  not  wave  their  leaves; 
the  air  still  glowed  with  the  heat  of  the  dead 
day;  and  the  stars  in  the  blue  above  sparkled 
with  that  luminosity  only  known  to  Southern 
nights.  Everything  seemed  to  dream  except 
61 


FANTASTICS 

the  lights  of  heaven,  and  we  dreamed  also  of 
the  Infinite. 

"Doctor,"  said  a  bearded  stranger,  who  had 
remained  silent  all  the  evening,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question.  I  have  lived  in  the  West  Indies, 
New  Zealand,  Canada,  Mexico;  and  I  am  some- 
thing of  a  traveler.  I  have  a  good  memory,  too. 
I  seldom  forget  the  sight  of  a  city  I  have  vis- 
ited. I  remember  every  street  and  nook  I  have 
ever  seen.  How  is  it,  then,  that  I  dream  contin- 
ually of  places  which  I  am  positive  I  have  never 
seen,  and  hear  in  my  sleep  a  tongue  spoken  that 
I  have  never  heard  while  awake  in  any  part  of 
the  world?" 

The  Doctor  smiled.  "  Can  you  describe,"  he 
asked,  "  the  places  you  see  in  your  dreams?" 

"I  can,  because  I  have  dreamed  of  them 
more  than  a  hundred  times.  Sometimes  I  do 
not  dream  of  them  for  a  year  at  a  time;  and 
then  again  I  will  dream  of  them  every  night  for 
a  week.  And  I  always  hear  that  strange  tongue 
spoken. 

"I  sail  to  these  places  from  a  vast  port,  sur- 
rounded by  huge  wharfs  of  cut  stone  —  white 
and  even-worn  by  the  friction  of  a  mighty  traf- 
fic. It  is  all  sun  there  and  light  and  air.  There 
62 


HEREDITARY  MEMORIES 

are  tropical  fruits  heaped  up,  and  wines  and  oils 
and  spices;  and  many  people  in  brightly  col- 
ored dresses,  blue  and  yellow.  I  have  a  queer 
idea  that  it  might  be  some  port  in  the  Medi- 
terranean. 

"Then  I  arrive  after  a  long  voyage  in  a 
strange  country.  I  do  not  remember  the  disem- 
barking. I  only  remember  a  great  city.  It  is 
not  built  like  any  American  or  European  city. 
Its  houses  are  high;  its  streets  narrow  and  fan- 
tastic. I  have  seen  in  Spain  a  few  buildings 
which  reminded  me  of  those  I  dream  about; 
but  they  were  old  Moorish  buildings. 

"There  is  an  immense  edifice  in  one  part  of 
the  city,  with  two  graceful  domes,  rising  like 
white  breasts  against  a  sky  most  intensely  blue. 
There  are  tall  and  very  slender  white  towers 
near  the  domes.  There  are  enormous  stairways 
of  white  stone  leading  down  into  an  expanse  of 
still  water,  reflecting  the  shadows  of  the  palace, 
or  whatever  it  may  be.  I  see  birds  there  with 
immense  beaks  and  flaming  plumage,  walking 
about  near  the  water.  I  have  seen  such  birds 
stuffed,  but  never  alive,  except  in  dreams.  But 
I  do  not  remember  where  the  stuffed  birds  came 
from. 

63 


FANTASTICS 

"I  feel  that  the  city  is  as  large  as  one  of  our 
great  Western  cities  here.  I  do  not  see  it,  but  I 
feel  it.  There  is  a  mighty  current  of  human  life 
flowing  through  its  streets.  The  people  are 
swarthy  and  graceful.  They  look  like  statues 
of  bronze.  Their  features  are  delicate  and  their 
hair  black  and  straight.  Some  of  the  women  are 
naked  to  the  waist,  and  exceedingly  beautiful. 
They  wear  immense  earrings  and  curious  orna- 
ments of  bright  metal.  The  men  wear  turbans 
and  brightly  colored  dresses.  Some  are  very 
lightly  clad.  There  are  so  many  dressed  in 
white!  All  speak  the  same  strange  language  I 
have  told  you  of,  and  there  are  camels  and  apes 
and  elephants  and  cattle  that  are  not  like  our 
cattle;  they  have  a  hump  between  the  head  and 
shoulders." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"All  I  can  remember." 

"Were  you  ever  in  India?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Have  you  never  visited  India  even  through 
the  medium  of  art  —  books,  engravings,  pho- 
tographs?" 

"I  do  not  believe  I  have  ever  read  a  single  il- 
lustrated book  upon  India.  I  have  seen  articles 
64 


HEREDITARY  MEMORIES 

brought  from  India,  and  some  pictures;-* 
drawings  on  rice  paper;  but  this  of  very  late 
years.  I  have  never  seen  anything  in  pictures 
like  the  place  I  have  described  to  you." 

"How  long  have  you  been  dreaming  of  these 
places?" 

"Well,  since  I  was  a  boy." 

"Was  your  father  ever  in  India,  or  your 
mother?" 

"My  father  was,  sir;  not  my  mother.  But  he 
died  there  when  I  was  a  child.  I  was  born  in 
Europe." 

"Hereditary  impressions!"  cried  the  Doctor. 
"That  explains  all  your  stories  of  metempsy- 
chosis. The  memories  of  the  father  descending 
to  the  children,  perhaps  even  to  the  third  and 
fourth  generation.  You  dream  of  Indian  cities 
you  have  never  seen  and  probably  never  will 
see.  Why?  Because  the  delicate  and  invisible 
impressions  made  upon  the  brain  of  an  English 
traveler  in  India,  through  the  mediums  of  sight 
and  sound,  are  inherited  by  his  children  born  in 
a  colder  climate  who  have  never  seen  the  Ori- 
ent, and  will  nevertheless  be  forever  haunted 
by  visions  of  the  Far  East." 


THE  GHOSTLY  KISS » 

THE  theatre  was  full.  I  cannot  remember 
what  they  were  playing.  I  did  not  have  time  to 
observe  the  actors.  I  only  remember  how  vast 
the  building  seemed.  Looking  back,  I  saw  an 
ocean  of  faces  stretching  away  almost  beyond 
the  eye's  power  of  definition  to  the  far  circles 
where  the  seats  rose  tier  above  tier  in  lines  of 
illumination.  The  ceiling  was  blue,  and  in  the 
midst  a  great  mellow  lamp  hung  suspended 
like  a  moon,  at  a  height  so  lofty  that  I  could 
not  see  the  suspending  chain.  All  the  seats  were 
black.  I  fancied  that  the  theatre  was  hung  with 
hangings  of  black  velvet,  bordered  with  a  silver 
fringe  that  glimmered  like  tears.  The  audience 
were  all  in  white. 

All  in  white !  —  I  asked  myself  whether  I  was 
not  in  some  theatre  of  some  tropical  city  — 
why  all  in  white?  I  could  not  guess.  I  fancied 
at  moments  that  I  could  perceive  a  moonlit 
landscape  through  far  distant  oriel  windows, 
and  the  crests  of  palms  casting  moving  shad- 
ows like  gigantic  spiders.    The  air  was  sweet 
1  Item,  July  24,  1880. 
66 


THE  GHOSTLY  KISS 

with  a  strange  and  a  new  perfume;  it  was  a 
drowsy  air  —  a  poppied  air,  in  which  the  wav- 
ing of  innumerable  white  fans  made  no  rustle, 
no  sound. 

There  was  a  strange  stillness  and  a  strange 
silence.  All  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  stage, 
except  my  own.  I  gazed  in  every  direction  but 
that  of  the  stage!  I  cannot  imagine  why  it  was 
that  I  rarely  looked  toward  the  stage.  No  one 
noticed  me;  no  one  appeared  to  perceive  that  I 
was  the  only  person  in  all  that  vast  assembly 
clad  in  black  —  a  tiny  dark  speck  in  a  sea  of 
white  light. 

Gradually  the  voices  of  the  actors  seemed  to 
me  to  become  fainter  and  fainter  —  thin  sounds 
like  whispers  from  another  world  —  a  world  of 
ghosts!  —  and  the  music  seemed  not  music, 
but  only  an  echo  in  the  mind  of  the  hearer,  like 
a  memory  of  songs  heard  and  forgotten  in  for- 
gotten years. 

There  were  faces  that  I  thought  strangely 
familiar  —  faces  I  fancied  I  had  seen  somewhere 
else  in  some  other  time.  But  none  recognized 
me. 

* 
*        * 

67 


FANTASTICS 

A  woman  sat  before  me  —  a  fair  woman  with 
hair  as  brightly  golden  as  the  locks  of  Aphro- 
dite. I  asked  my  heart  why  it  beat  so  strangely 
when  I  turned  my  eyes  upon  her.  I  felt  as  if  it 
sought  to  leap  from  my  breast  and  fling  itself 
all  palpitating  under  her  feet.  I  watched  the 
delicate  movements  of  her  neck,  where  a  few 
loose  bright  curls  were  straying,  like  strands  of 
gold  clinging  to  a  column  of  ivory;  —  the  soft 
curve  of  the  cheek  flushed  by  a  faint  ruddiness 
like  the  velvet  surface  of  a  half-ripe  peach;  — 
the  grace  of  the  curving  lips  —  lips  sweet  as 
those  of  the  Cnidian  Venus,  which  even  after 
two  thousand  years  still  seem  humid,  as  with 
the  kisses  of  the  last  lover.  But  the  eyes  I  could 
not  see. 

And  a  strange  desire  rose  within  me  —  an 
intense  wish  to  kiss  those  lips.  My  heart  said, 
Yes;  —  my  reason  whispered,  No.  I  thought 
of  the  ten  thousand  thousand  eyes  that  might 
suddenly  be  turned  upon  me.  I  looked  back; 
and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  whole  theatre  had 
grown  vaster!  The  circles  of  seats  had  re- 
ceded; —  the  great  centre  lamp  seemed  to  have 
mounted  higher;  —  the  audience  seemed  vast 
as  that  we  dream  of  in  visions  of  the  Last  Judg- 
68 


THE  GHOSTLY  KISS 

ment.  And  my  heart  beat  so  violently  that  I 
heard  its  passionate  pulsation,  louder  than  the 
voices  of  the  actors  and  I  feared  lest  it  should 
betray  me  to  all  the  host  of  white-clad  men  and 
women  above  me.  But  none  seemed  to  hear  or 
to  see  me.  I  trembled  as  I  thought  of  the  conse- 
quences of  obeying  the  mad  impulse  that  be- 
came every  moment  more  overpowering  and 
uncontrollable. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "One  kiss  of  those 
lips  were  worth  the  pain  of  ten  thousand 
deaths." 


I  do  not  remember  that  I  arose.  I  only  re- 
member finding  myself  beside  her,  close  to  her, 
breathing  her  perfumed  breath,  and  gazing  into 
eyes  deep  as  the  amethystine  heaven  of  a  tropi- 
cal night.  I  pressed  my  lips  passionately  to 
hers; — I  felt  a  thrill  of  inexpressible  delight 
and  triumph;  —  I  felt  the  warm  soft  lips  curl 
back  to  meet  mine,  and  give  me  back  my 
kiss! 

And  a  great  fear  suddenly  came  upon  me. 
And  all  the  multitude  of  white-clad  men  and 
69 


FANTASTICS 

women  arose  in  silence;  and  ten  thousand  thou- 
sand eyes  looked  upon  me. 


I  heard  a  voice,  faint,  sweet,  —  such  a  voice 
as  we  hear  when  dead  loves  visit  us  in  dreams. 

"  Thou  hast  kissed  me :  the  compact  is  sealed 
forever.'" 

And  raising  my  eyes  once  more  I  saw  that  all 
the  seats  were  graves  and  all  the  white  dresses 
shrouds.  Above  me  a  light  still  shone  in  the 
blue  roof,  but  only  the  light  of  a  white  moon 
in  the  eternal  azure  of  heaven.  White  tombs 
stretched  away  in  weird  file  to  the  verge  of  the 
horizon;  —  where  it  had  seemed  to  me  that  I 
beheld  a  play,  I  saw  only  a  lofty  mausoleum; 
—  and  I  knew  that  the  perfume  of  the  night 
was  but  the  breath  of  flowers  dying  upon  the 
tombs! 


THE  BLACK  CUPID1 

THERE  was  a  small  picture  hanging  in  the 
room;  and  I  took  the  light  to  examine  it.  I  do 
not  know  why  I  could  not  sleep.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  excitement  of  travel. 

The  gilded  frame,  massive  and  richly 
moulded,  inclosed  one  of  the  strangest  paint- 
ings I  had  ever  seen,  a  woman's  head  lying  on  a 
velvet  pillow,  one  arm  raised  and  one  bare 
shoulder  with  part  of  a  beautiful  bosom  relieved 
against  a  dark  background.  As  I  said,  the 
painting  was  small.  The  young  woman  was 
evidently  reclining  upon  her  right  side;  but 
only  her  head,  elevated  upon  the  velvet  pillow, 
her  white  throat,  one  beautiful  arm  and  part 
of  the  bosom  was  visible. 

With  consummate  art  the  painter  had  con- 
trived that  the  spectator  should  feel  as  though 
leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  couch  —  not  visi- 
ble in  the  picture  —  so  as  to  bring  his  face  close 
to  the  beautiful  face  on  the  pillow.    It  was  one 
of  the  most  charming  heads  a  human  being 
ever  dreamed  of;  —  such  a  delicate  bloom  on 
1  Item,  July  29, 1880. 
71 


FANTASTICS 

the  cheeks;  —  such  a  soft,  humid  light  in  the 
half-closed  eyes;  —  such  sun-bright  hair;  — 
such  carnation  lips;  —  such  an  oval  outline! 
And  all  this  relieved  against  a  deep  black  back- 
ground. In  the  lobe  of  the  left  ear  I  noticed 
a  curious  earring  —  a  tiny  Cupid  wrought  in 
black  jet,  suspending  himself  by  his  bow,  which 
he  held  by  each  end,  as  if  trying  to  pull  it  away 
from  the  tiny  gold  chain  which  fettered  it  to 
the  beautiful  ear,  delicate  and  f aintly  rosy  as  a 
seashell.  What  a  strange  earring  it  was!  I  won- 
dered if  the  black  Cupid  presided  over  unlaw- 
ful loves,  unblest  amours! 

But  the  most  curious  thing  about  the  picture 
was  the  attitude  and  aspect  of  the  beautiful 
woman.  Her  head,  partly  thrown  back,  with 
half-closed  eyes  and  tender  smile,  seemed  to 
be  asking  a  kiss.  The  lips  pouted  expectantly. 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  feel  her  perfumed 
breath.  Under  the  rounded  arm  I  noticed  a 
silky  floss  of  bright  hair  in  tiny  curls.  The  arm 
was  raised  as  if  to  be  flung  about  the  neck  of  the 
person  from  whom  the  kiss  was  expected.  I  was 
astonished  by  the  art  of  the  painter.  No  pho- 
tograph could  have  rendered  such  effects,  how- 
ever delicately  colored;  no  photograph  could 
72 


THE  BLACK  CUPID 

have  reproduced  the  gloss  of  the  smooth  shoul- 
der, the  veins,  the  smallest  details!  But  the 
picture  had  a  curious  fascination.  It  produced 
an  effect  upon  me  as  if  I  were  looking  at  living 
beauty,  a  rosy  and  palpitating  reality.  Under 
the  unsteady  light  of  the  lamp  I  once  fancied 
that  I  saw  the  lips  move,  the  eyes  glisten!  The 
head  seemed  to  advance  itself  out  of  the  canvas 
as  though  to  be  kissed.  Perhaps  it  was  very 
foolish;  but  I  could  not  help  kissing  it  —  not 
once  but  a  hundred  times;  and  then  I  suddenly 
became  frightened.  Stories  of  bleeding  statues 
and  mysterious  pictures  and  haunted  tapestry 
came  to  my  mind;  and  alone  in  a  strange  house 
and  a  strange  city  I  felt  oddly  nervous.  I 
placed  the  light  on  the  table  and  went  to  bed. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  sleep.  Whenever  I 
began  to  doze  a  little,  I  saw  the  beautiful  head 
on  the  pillow  close  beside  me,  —  the  same  smile, 
the  same  lips,  the  golden  hair,  the  silky  floss 
under  the  caressing  arm.  I  rose,  dressed  my- 
self, lit  a  pipe,  blew  out  the  light,  and  smoked 
in  the  dark,  until  the  faint  blue  tints  of  day 
stole  in  through  the  windows.  Afar  off  I  saw 
the  white  teeth  of  the  Sierra  flush  rosily,  and 
heard  the  rumbling  of  awakening  traffic. 
73 


FANTASTICS 

"Las  cinco  menos  quarto,  senor"  cried  the 
servant  as  he  knocked  upon  my  door,  — 
"tiempo  para  levantarse." 


* 
* 


Before  leaving  I  asked  the  landlord  about  the 
picture. 

He  answered  with  a  smile,  "It  was  painted 
by  a  madman,  senor." 

"  But  who?  "  I  asked.  "  Mad  or  not,  he  was  a 
master  genius." 

"I  do  not  even  remember  his  name.  He  is 
dead.  They  allowed  him  to  paint  in  the  mad- 
house. It  kept  his  mind  tranquil.  I  obtained 
the  painting  from  his  family  after  his  death. 
They  refused  to  accept  money  for  it,  saying 
they  were  glad  to  give  it  away." 


I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  painting  when 
some  five  years  after  I  happened  to  be  passing 
through  a  little  street  in  Mexico  City.  My  at- 
tention was  suddenly  attracted  by  some  articles 
I  saw  in  the  window  of  a  dingy  shop,  kept  by  a 
74 


THE  BLACK  CUPID 

Spanish  Jew.  A  pair  of  earrings  —  two  little 
Cupids  wrought  in  black  jet,  holding  their  bows 
above  their  heads,  the  bows  being  attached  by 
slender  gold  chains  to  the  hooks  of  the  ear- 
rings! 
I  remembered  the  picture  in  a  moment! 

And  that  night! 

* 
*        * 

"I  do  not  really  care  to  sell  them,  senor," 
said  the  swarthy  jeweler,  "unless  I  get  my 
price.  You  cannot  get  another  pair  like  them. 
I  know  who  made  them!  They  were  made  for 
an  artist  who  came  here  expressly  with  the  de- 
sign. He  wished  to  make  a  present  to  a  certain 
woman." 

"UnaMejicana?" 

"No,  Americana." 

"Fair,  with  dark  eyes  —  about  twenty,  per- 
haps, at  that  time  —  a  little  rosy?" 

"Why,  did  you  know  her?  They  used  to  call 
her  Josefita.  You  know  he  killed  her?  Jeal- 
ousy. They  found  her  still  smiling,  as  if  she  had 
been  struck  while  asleep.  A  'punalS  I  got  the 
earrings  back  at  a  sale." 

"And  the  artist?" 

75 


FANTASTICS 

"  Died  at  P ,  mad !  Some  say  he  was  mad 

when  he  killed  her.  If  you  really  want  the  ear- 
rings, I  will  let  you  have  them  for  sixty  pesos. 
They  cost  a  hundred  and  fifty." 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  FLOWER1 

I  WAS  once  a  flower  —  fair  and  large.  My 
snowy  chalice,  filled  with  a  perfume  so  rich  as 
to  intoxicate  the  rainbow-winged  insects  that 
perched  upon  it,  recalled  to  those  who  beheld 
me  the  beauty  of  those  myrrhine  cups  used  at 
the  banquets  of  the  old  Caesars. 

The  bees  sang  to  me  all  through  the  bright 
summer;  the  winds  caressed  me  in  the  hours  of 
sultriness;  the  Spirit  of  the  Dew  filled  my  white 
cup  by  night.  Great  plants,  with  leaves  broader 
than  the  ears  of  elephants,  overshadowed  me  as 
with  a  canopy  of  living  emerald. 

Far  off  I  heard  the  river  singing  its  mystic 
and  everlasting  hymn  and  the  songs  of  a  thou- 
sand birds.  By  night  I  peeped  up  through  my 
satiny  petals  at  the  infinite  procession  of  the 
stars;  and  by  day  I  turned  forever  to  the  eye  of 
the  sun  my  heart  of  yellow  gold. 

Hummingbirds  with  jeweled  breasts,  flying 

from  the  Rising  of  the  Sun,  nestled  near  me  and 

drank  the  perfumed  dews  left  lingering  in  my 

chalice,  and  sang  to  me  of  the  wonders  of  un- 

1  Item,  August  13,  1880. 

77 


FANTASTICS 

known  lands  —  of  black  roses  that  grew  only 
in  the  gardens  of  magicians  and  spectral  lilies 
whose  perfume  is  death  which  open  their  hearts 
only  to  tropical  moons. 


They  severed  the  emerald  thread  of  my  life, 
and  placed  me  in  her  hair.  I  did  not  feel  the 
slow  agony  of  death,  like  the  fettered  fireflies 
that  glimmered  as  stars  in  the  night-darkness  of 
those  splendid  tresses.  I  felt  the  perfume  of  my 
life  mingling  in  her  blood  and  entering  the  se- 
cret chambers  of  her  heart;  and  I  mourned  that 
I  was  but  a  flower. 


That  night  we  passed  away  together.  I 
know  not  how  she  died.  I  had  hoped  to  share 
her  eternal  sleep;  but  a  weird  wind  entering 
through  the  casement  rent  my  dead  leaves 
asunder  and  scattered  them  in  white  ruin  upon 
the  pillow.  Yet  my  ghost  like  a  faint  perfume 
still  haunted  the  silent  chamber  and  hovered 
about  the  flames  of  the  waxen  tapers. 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  FLOWER 

Other  flowers,  not  of  my  race,  are  blooming 
above  her  place  of  rest.  It  is  her  blood  that 
lives  in  the  rosiness  of  their  petals;  her  breath 
that  lends  perfume  to  their  leaves;  her  life  that 
vitalizes  their  veins  of  diaphanous  green.  But 
in  the  wizard  hours  of  the  night,  the  merciful 
Spirit  of  the  Dew,  who  mourns  the  death  of 
summer  day,  bears  me  aloft  and  permits  me  to 
mingle  with  the  crystal  tears  which  fall  upon 
her  grave. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS1 

"THOSE  theorieswhich  you  call  wild  dreams," 
cried  the  Doctor,  rising  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke, 
his  features  glowing  with  enthusiasm  under  the 
moon,  "are  but  the  mystic  veils  with  which  the 
eternal  Isis  veils  her  awful  face.  Your  deep 
German  philosophy  is  shallow  —  your  modern 
pantheism  vaguer  than  smoke  —  compared 
with  the  mighty  knowledge  of  the  East.  The 
theories  of  the  greatest  modern  thinkers  were 
taught  in  India  before  the  name  of  Rome  was 
heard  in  the  world;  and  our  scientific  researches 
of  to-day  simply  confirm  most  ancient  Oriental 
beliefs,  which  we,  in  our  ignorance,  have  spoken 
of  as  dreams  of  madmen." 

"Yes,  but  surely,  you  cannot  otherwise 
characterize  the  idea  of  the  transmigration  of 
souls?  " 

"Ah!  souls,  souls,"  replied  the  stranger, 
drawing  at  his  cigar  until  it  glowed  like  a  car- 
buncle in  the  night,  —  "we  have  nothing  to  do 
with  souls,  but  with  facts.  The  metempsycho- 
sis is  only  the  philosophic  symbol  of  a  vast 
1  Item,  September  7, 1880. 
80 


METEMPSYCHOSIS 

natural  fact,  grotesque  only  to  those  who  un- 
derstand it  not; — just  as  the  most  hideous 
Indian  idol,  diamond-eyed  and  skull-chapleted, 
represents  to  the  Brahmin  a  hidden  truth  in- 
comprehensible to  the  people.  Conscious  of  the 
eternity  of  Matter  and  Force;  —  knowing  that 
the  substance  of  whirling  universes,  like  clay 
in  the  hands  of  the  potter,  has  been  and  is  being 
and  will  be  forever  fashioned  into  myriad  shift- 
ing forms;  —  knowing  that  shapes  alone  are 
evanescent,  and  that  each  atom  of  our  living 
bodies  has  been  from  the  beginning  and  will 
always  be,  even  after  the  mountains  have 
melted  like  wax  in  the  heat  of  a  world's  dissolu- 
tion, —  it  is  impossible  to  regard  the  theory  of 
transmigration  as  a  mere  fantasy.  Each  particle 
of  our  flesh  has  lived  before  our  birth  through 
millions  of  transmigrations  more  wonderful 
than  any  poet  has  dared  to  dream  of;  and  the 
life-force  that  throbs  in  the  heart  of  each  one 
of  us  has  throbbed  for  all  time  in  the  eternal 
metempsychosis  of  the  universe.  Each  atom 
of  our  blood  has  doubtless  circulated,  before 
our  very  civilization  commenced,  through  the 
veins  of  millions  of  living  creatures,  —  soaring, 
crawling,  or  dwelling  in  the  depths  of  the  sea; 


FANTASTICS 

and  each  molecule  that  floats  in  a  sunbeam 
has,  perhaps,  vibrated  to  the  thrill  of  human 
passion.  The  soil  under  my  foot  has  lived  and 
loved;  and  Nature,  refashioning  the  paste  in 
her  awful  laboratory  into  new  forms  of  being, 
shall  make  this  clay  to  live  and  hope  and  suf- 
fer again.  Dare  I  even  whisper  to  you  of  the 
past  transformations  of  the  substance  of  the 
rosiest  lips  you  have  kissed,  or  the  brightest  eyes 
which  have  mirrored  your  look?  We  have  lived 
innumerable  lives  in  the  past;  we  have  lived  in 
the  flowers,  in  the  birds,  in  the  emerald  abysses 
of  the  ocean;  —  we  have  slept  in  the  silence  of 
solid  rocks,  and  moved  in  the  swells  of  the 
thunder-chanting  sea;  —  we  have  been  women 
as  well  as  men;  —  we  have  changed  our  sex  a 
thousand  times  like  the  angels  of  the  Talmud; 
and  we  shall  continue  the  everlasting  transmi- 
gration long  after  the  present  universe  has 
passed  away  and  the  fires  of  the  stars  have 
burned  themselves  out.  Can  one  know  these 
things  and  laugh  at  the  theories  of  the  East?" 

"But  the  theory  of  Cycles  — " 

"It  is  not  less  of  a  solemn  truth.  Knowing 
that  Force  and  Matter  are  eternal,  we  know 
also  that  the  kaleidoscope  of  changing  shapes 
82 


METEMPSYCHOSIS 

must  whirHorever.  But  as  the  colored  particles 
within  a  kaleidoscope  are  limited,  only  a  cer- 
tain number  of  combinations  may  be  produced. 
Are  not  the  elements  of  eternal  matter  limited? 
If  so,  their  combinations  must  also  be;  and  as 
the  everlasting  force  must  forever  continue  to 
create  forms,  it  can  only  repeat  its  work.  Then, 
we  must  believe  that  all  which  has  already  hap- 
pened must  have  happened  before  throughout 
all  time,  and  will  happen  again  at  vast  intervals 
through  all  eternity.  It  is  not  the  first  time  we 
have  sat  together  on  the  night  of  September  6; 
—  we  have  done  so  in  other  Septembers,  yet 
the  same;  and  in  other  New  Orleanses,  the  same 
yet  not  the  same.  We  must  have  done  it  cen- 
trillions  of  times  before,  and  will  do  it  centril- 
lions  of  times  again  through  the  aeons  of  the  fu- 
ture. I  shall  be  again  as  I  am,  yet  different;  I 
shall  smoke  the  same  cigar,  yet  a  different  one. 
The  same  chair  with  the  same  scratches  on  its 
polished  back  will  be  there  for  you  to  sit  in; 
and  we  shall  hold  the  same  conversation.  The 
same  good-natured  lady  will  bring  us  a  bottle 
of  wine  of  the  same  quality;  and  the  same  per- 
sons will  be  reunited  in  this  quaint  Creole  house. 
Trees  like  these  will  fling  their  shadows  on  the 
83 


FANTASTICS 

pavement;  and  above  us  shall  we  again  behold 
as  now  the  golden  swarm  of  worlds  sparkling 
in  the  abysses  of  the  infinite  night.  There  will 
be  new  stars  and  a  new  universe,  yet  we  shall 
know  it  only  as  we  know  it  at  this  moment  that 
centrillions  of  years  ago  we  must  have  suffered 
and  hoped  and  loved  as  we  do  in  these  weary 
years.  Good-bye,  friends ! "  < 

He  flung  the  stump  of  his  cigar  among  the 
vines,  where  it  expired  in  a  shower  of  rosy 
sparks;  and  his  footsteps  died  away  forever. 
NAY,  not  forever;  for  though  we  should  see  him 
no  more  in  this  life,  shall  we  not  see  him  again 
throughout  the  Cycles  and  the  ^Eons?  YEA, 
alas,  forever;  for  even  though  we  should  see 
him  again  throughout  the  Cycles  and  the  ^Eons, 
will  it  not  be  so  that  he  always  departeth  under 
the  same  circumstances  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, in  sacula  saculorum? 


THE  UNDYING  ONE1 

I  HAVE  lived  for  three  thousand  years;  I  am 
weary  of  men  and  of  the  world:  this  earth  has 
become  too  small  for  such  as  I;  this  sky  seems  a 
gray  vault  of  lead  about  to  sink  down  and  crush 
me. 

There  is  not  a  silver  hah*  in  my  head;  the 
dust  of  thirty  centuries  has  not  dimmed  my 
eyes.  Yet  I  am  weary  of  the  earth. 

I  speak  a  thousand  tongues;  and  the  faces  of 
the  continents  are  familiar  to  me  as  the  char- 
acters of  a  book;  the  heavens  have  unrolled 
themselves  before  mine  eyes  as  a  scroll;  and 
the  entrails  of  the  earth  have  no  secrets  for  me. 

I  have  sought  knowledge  in  the  deepest  deeps 
of  ocean  gulfs;  —  in  the  waste  places  where 
sands  shift  their  yellow  waves,  with  a  dry  and 
bony  sound;  —  in  the  corruption  of  charnel 
houses  and  the  hidden  horrors  of  the  cata- 
combs; —  amid  the  virgin  snows  of  Dwalagiri; 
—  in  the  awful  labyrinths  of  forests  untrodden 
by  man;  —  in  the  wombs  of  dead  volcanoes;  — 
in  lands  where  the  surface  of  lake  or  stream  is 
1  Item,  September  18, 1880. 
85 


FANTASTICS 

studded  with  the  backs  of  hippopotami  or  enam- 
eled with  the  mail  of  crocodiles;  —  at  the  ex- 
tremities of  the  world  where  spectral  glaciers 
float  over  inky  seas;  —  in  those  strange  parts 
where  no  life  is,  where  the  mountains  are  rent 
asunder  by  throes  of  primeval  earthquake,  and 
where  the  eyes  behold  only  a  world  of  parched 
and  jagged  ruin,  like  the  Moon  —  of  dried-up 
seas  and  river  channels  worn  out  by  torrents 
that  ceased  to  roll  long  ere  the  birth  of  man. 

All  the  knowledge  of  all  the  centuries,  all  the 
craft  and  skill  and  cunning  of  man  in  all  things 
—  are  mine,  and  yet  more! 

For  Life  and  Death  have  whispered  me  their 
most  ancient  secrets;  and  all  that  men  have 
vainly  sought  to  learn  has  for  me  no  mystery. 

Have  I  not  tasted  all  the  pleasures  of  this 
petty  world,  —  pleasures  that  would  have  con- 
sumed to  ashes  a  frame  less  mighty  than  my 
own? 

I  have  built  temples  with  the  Egyptians,  the 
princes  of  India,  and  the  Caesars;  —  I  have 
aided  conquerors  to  vanquish  a  world;  —  I  have 
reveled  through  nights  of  orgiastic  fury  with 
rulers  of  Thebes  and  Babylon;  —  I  have  been 
drunk  with  wine  and  blood! 
86 


THE  UNDYING  ONE 

The  kingdoms  of  the  earth  and  all  their 
riches  and  glory  have  been  mine. 

With  that  lever  which  Archimedes  desired  I 
have  uplifted  empires  and  overthrown  dynas- 
ties. Nay!  like  a  god,  I  have  held  the  world  in 
the  hollow  of  my  hand. 

All  that  the  beauty  of  youth  and  the  love  of 
woman  can  give  to  make  joyful  the  hearts  of 
men,  have  I  possessed;  —  no  Assyrian  king, 
no  Solomon,  no  ruler  of  Samarcand,  no  Caliph 
of  Bagdad,  no  Rajah  of  the  most  eastern  East, 
has  ever  loved  as  I;  and  in  my  myriad  loves  I 
have  beheld  the  realization  of  all  that  human 
thought  had  conceived  or  human  heart  desired 
or  human  hand  crystallized  into  that  marble  of 
Pentelicus  called  imperishable,  —  yet  less  en- 
during than  these  iron  limbs  of  mine. 

And  ruddy  I  remain  like  that  rosy  granite  of 
Egypt  on  which  kings  carved  their  dreams  of 
eternity. 

But  I  am  weary  of  this  world! 

I  have  attained  all  that  I  sought;  I  have  de- 
sired nothing  that  I  have  not  obtained  —  save 
that  I  now  vainly  desire  and  yet  shall  never 
obtain. 

There  is  no  comrade  for  me  in  all  this  earth; 
87 


FANTASTICS 

no  mind  that  can  comprehend  me;  no  heart  that 
can  love  me  for  what  I  am. 

Should  I  utter  what  I  know,  no  living  crea- 
ture could  understand;  should  I  write  my  knowl- 
edge no  human  brain  could  grasp  my  thought. 
Wearing  the  shape  of  a  man,  capable  of  doing  all 
that  man  can  do,  —  yet  more  perfectly  than 
man  can  ever  do,  —  I  must  live  as  these  my 
frail  companions,  and  descend  to  the  level  of 
their  feeble  minds,  and  imitate  their  puny 
works,  though  owning  the  wisdom  of  a  god! 
How  mad  were  those  Greek  dreamers  who  sang 
of  gods  descending  to  the  level  of  humanity 
that  they  might  love  a  woman! 

In  other  centuries  I  feared  to  beget  a  son,  — 
a  son  to  whom  I  might  have  bequeathed  my 
own  immortal  youth;  —  jealous  that  I  was  of 
sharing  my  secret  with  any  terrestrial  creature! 
Now  the  time  has  past.  No  son  of  mine  born 
in  this  age,  of  this  degenerate  race,  could  ever 
become  a  worthy  companion  for  me.  Oceans 
would  change  their  beds,  and  new  continents 
arise  from  the  emerald  gulfs,  and  new  races  ap- 
pear upon  the  earth  ere  he  could  comprehend 
the  least  of  my  thoughts! 

The  future  holds  no  pleasure  in  reserve  for 
88 


THE  UNDYING  ONE 

me:  —  I  have  foreseen  the  phases  of  a  myriad 
million  years.  All  that  has  been  will  be  again: 
—  all  that  will  be  has  been  before.  I  am  soli- 
tary as  one  in  a  desert;  for  men  have  become  as 
puppets  in  my  eyes,  and  the  voice  of  living 
woman  hath  no  sweetness  for  my  ears. 

Only  to  the  voices  of  the  winds  and  of  the  sea 
do  I  hearken;  —  yet  do  even  these  weary  me, 
for  they  murmured  me  the  same  music  and 
chanted  me  the  same  hymns,  among  aged 
woods  or  ancient  rocks,  three  thousand  years 
ago! 

To-night  I  shall  have  seen  the  moon  wax  and 
wane  thirty-six  thousand  nine  hundred  times! 
And  my  eyes  are  weary  of  gazing  upon  its  white 
face. 

Ah !  I  might  be  willing  to  live  on  through  end- 
less years,  could  I  but  transport  myself  to  other 
glittering  worlds,  illuminated  by  double  suns 
and  encircled  by  galaxies  of  huge  moons!  — 
other  worlds  in  which  I  might  find  knowledge 
equal  to  my  own,  and  minds  worthy  of  my  com- 
panionship, —  and  —  perhaps  —  women  that 
I  might  love,  —  not  hollow  Emptinesses,  not 
El-women  like  the  spectres  of  Scandinavian 
fable,  and  like  the  frail  mothers  of  this  puny 
89 


FANTASTICS 

terrestrial  race,  but  creatures  of  immortal 
beauty  worthy  to  create  immortal  children! 

Alas!  —  there  is  a  power  mightier  than  my 
will,  deeper  than  my  knowledge,  —  a  Force 
"deaf  as  fire,  blind  as  the  night,"  which  binds 
me  forever  to  this  world  of  men. 

Must  I  remain  like  Prometheus  chained  to 
his  rock  in  never-ceasing  pain,  with  vitals  eter- 
nally gnawed  by  the  sharp  beak  of  the  vulture 
of  Despair,  or  dissolve  this  glorious  body  of 
mine  forever? 

I  might  live  till  the  sun  grows  dim  and  cold; 
yet  am  I  too  weary  to  live  longer. 

I  shall  die  utterly,  —  even  as  the  beast  dieth, 
even  as  the  poorest  being  dieth  that  bears  the 
shape  of  man;  and  leave  no  written  thought  be- 
hind that  human  thought  can  ever  grasp.  I 
shall  pass  away  as  a  flying  smoke,  as  a  shadow, 
as  a  bubble  in  the  crest  of  a  wave  in  mid-ocean, 
as  the  flame  of  a  taper  blown  out;  and  none 
shall  ever  know  that  which  I  was.  ThisTieart 
that  has  beaten  unceasingly  for  three  thousand 
years;  these  feet  that  have  trod  the  soil  of  all 
parts  of  the  earth;  these  hands  that  have 
moulded  the  destinies  of  nations;  this  brain  that 
contains  a  thousandfold  more  wisdom  than  all 
90 


THE  UNDYING  ONE 

the  children  of  the  earth  ever  knew,  shall  soon 
cease  to  be.  And  yet  to  shatter  and  destroy 
the  wondrous  mechanism  of  this  brain  —  a 
brain  worthy  of  the  gods  men  dream  of  —  a 
temple  in  which  all  the  archives  of  terrestrial 
knowledge  are  stored! 

The  moon  is  up!  O  death- white  dead  world! 
—  couldst  thou  too  feel,  how  gladly  wouldst 
thou  cease  thy  corpselike  circlings  in  the  Night 
of  Immensity  and  follow  me  to  that  darker  im- 
mensity where  even  dreams  are  deadl 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  DEAD  CREOLE1 

THE  waters  of  the  Gulf  were  tepid  in  the 
warmth  of  the  tropical  night.  A  huge  moon 
looked  down  upon  me  as  I  swam  toward  the 
palm-fringed  beach;  and  looking  back  I  saw 
the  rigging  of  the  vessel  sharply  cut  against 
its  bright  face.  There  was  no  sound!  The 
sea-ripples  kissed  the  brown  sands  silently, 
as  if  afraid;  faint  breezes  laden  with  odors 
of  saffron  and  cinnamon  and  drowsy  flowers 
came  over  the  water;  —  the  stars  seemed  vaster 
than  in  other  nights;  —  the  fires  of  the  South- 
ern Cross  burned  steadily  without  one  dia- 
mond-twinkle; —  I  paused  a  moment  in  terror; 
— for  it  seemed  I  could  hear  the  night  breathe 
—  in  long,  weird  sighs.  The  fancy  passed  as 
quickly  as  it  came.  The  ship's  bells  struck  the 
first  hour  of  the  morning.  I  stood  again  on 
the  shore  where  I  had  played  as  a  child,  and 
saw  through  the  palms  the  pale  houses  of  the 
quaint  city  beyond,  whence  I  had  fled  with 
1  Item,  September  25,  1880. 
92 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  DEAD  CREOLE 

blood  upon  my  hands  twenty-seven  long  years 
before. 


Was  it  a  witch-night,  that  the  city  slum- 
bered so  deep  a  sleep  and  the  sereno  slept  at  his 
post  as  I  passed?  I  know  not,  but  it  was  well 
for  him  that  he  slept!  I  passed  noiselessly  as 
the  Shadow  of  Death  through  the  ancient  gates, 
and  through  the  shadows  flung  down  by  the 
projecting  balconies,  and  along  the  side  of  the 
plaza  unilluminated  by  the  gaze  of  the  tropical 
moon,  and  where  the  towers  of  the  cathedral 
made  goblin  shapes  of  darkness  on  the  pave- 
ment; and  along  narrow  ways  where  the  star- 
sprinkled  blue  of  heaven  above  seemed  but  a 
ribbon  of  azure,  jagged  and  gashed  along  its 
edges  by  sharp  projections  of  balconies;  and 
beyond  again  into  the  white  moonshine,  where 
orange  trees  filled  the  warm  air  with  a  perfume 
as  that  of  a  nuptial  chamber;  and  beyond,  yet 
farther,  where  ancient  cypresses  with  roots  and 
branches  gnarled  and  twisted  as  by  the  tortures 
of  a  thousand  years  of  agony,  bowed  weirdly 

over  the  Place  of  Tombs. 

* 
*        * 

93 


FANTASTICS 

Gigantic  spiders  spun  their  webs  under  the 
moon  between  the  walls  of  the  tombs;  —  vipers 
glided  over  my  feet;  —  the  vampire  hovered 
above  under  the  stars;  and  fireflies  like  corpse- 
lights  circled  about  the  resting-places  of  the 
dead.  Great  vines  embraced  the  marbles  green 
with  fungus-growths;  —  the  ivy  buried  its  liz- 
ard feet  in  the  stones;  —  lianas  had  woven  a 
veil,  thick  as  that  of  Isis,  across  the  epitaphs 
carven  above  the  graves.  But  I  found  HER 
tomb!  I  would  have  reached  it,  as  I  had  sworn, 
even  in  the  teeth  of  Death  and  Hell! 

I  tore  asunder  the  venomous  plants  which 
clung  to  the  marble  like  reptiles;  —  but  the 
blood  poured  from  my  hands  upon  her  name; 
—  and  I  could  not  find  one  unreddened  spot 
to  kiss.  And  I  heard  the  blood  from  my  fingers 
dripping  with  a  thick,  dead  sound,  as  of  molten 
lead,  upon  the  leaves  of  the  uptorn  plants  at 
my  feet. 


And  the  dead  years  rose  from  their  graves  of 
mist  and  stood  around  me!   I  saw  the  moss- 
green  terrace  where  I  received  her  first  kiss  that 
filled  my  veins  with  madness;  —  the  marble 
94 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  DEAD  CREOLE 

urns  with  their  carved  bas-reliefs  of  naked  danc- 
ing boys;  — the  dead  fountain  choked  with 
water-lilies;  —  the  monstrous  flowers  that 
opened  their  hearts  to  the  moon.  And  SHE!  — 
the  sinuous  outlines  of  that  body  of  Corinthian 
bronze  unconcealed  by  the  feathery  lightness  of 
the  white  robe  she  wore;  —  the  Creole  eyes;  — 
the  pouting  and  passionate  mouth;  —  and  that 
cruel,  sphinx-smile,  that  smile  of  Egypt,  eter- 
nally pitiless,  eternally  mystical,  —  the  smile 
she  wore  when  I  flung  myself  like  a  worm  before 
her  to  kiss  her  feet,  and  vainly  shrieked  to  her 
to  trample  upon  me,  to  spit  upon  me !  And  after 
my  fierce  moment  of  vengeance,  the  smile  of 
Egypt  still  remained  upon  her  dark  face,  as 
though  moulded  in  everlasting  bronze. 


There  was  no  rustle  among  the  lianas,  no  stir 
among  the  dead  leaves;  yet  SHE  stood  again  be- 
fore me !  My  heart  seemed  to  cease  its  beatings ; 
—  a  chill  as  of  those  nights  in  which  I  had  sailed 
Antarctic  seas  passed  over  me !  Robed  in  white 
as  in  the  buried  years,  with  lights  like  fireflies 
in  her  hair,  and  the  same  dark,  elfish  smilel 
95 


FANTASTICS 

And  suddenly  the  chill  passed  away  with  a 
fierce  cataclysm  of  the  blood,  as  though  each  of 
its  cells  were  heated  by  volcanic  fire;  —  for  the 
strange  words  of  the  Hebrew  canticle  came  to 
me  like  a  far  echo,  — 

LOVE  IS  STRONG  AS  DEATH! 

I  burst  the  fetters  with  which  horror  had 
chained  my  voice;  —  I  spake  to  her;  I  wept,  — 
I  wept  tears  of  blood! 

And  the  old  voice  came  to  me,  argentine  and 
low  and  mockingly  sweet  as  the  voices  of  birds 
that  call  to  each  other  through  the  fervid  West 
Indian  night,  — 

"I  knew  thou  wouldst  come  back  to  me,  — 
howsoever  long  thou  mightst  wander  under 
other  skies  and  over  other  seas. 

"Didst  thou  dream  that  I  was  dead?  Nay, 
I  die  not  so  quickly!  I  have  lived  through  all 
these  years.  I  shall  live  on;  and  thou  must  re- 
turn hither  again  to  visit  me  like  a  thief  in  the 
night. 

"Knowest  thou  how  I  have  lived?  I  have 
lived  in  the  bitter  tears  thou  hast  wept  through 
all  these  long  years;  —  the  agony  of  the  re- 
morse that  seized  thee  in  silent  nights  and  lone- 
96 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  DEAD  CREOLE 

some  wastes;  —  in  the  breath  of  thy  youth  and 
life  exhaled  in  passionate  agony  when  no  hu- 
man eyes  beheld  thee;  —  in  the  images  that 
haunt  thy  dreams  and  make  it  a  horror  for 
thee  to  find  thyself  alone!  Yet  wouldst  thou 
kiss  me  — " 

I  looked  upon  her  again  in  the  white  light;  — 
I  saw  the  same  weirdly  beautiful  face,  the  same 
smile  of  the  sphinx;  —  I  saw  the  vacant  tomb 
yawning  to  its  entrails;  —  I  saw  its  shadow  — 
my  shadow  —  lying  sharply  upon  the  graves; 
—  and  I  saw  that  the  tall  white  figure  before 
me  cast  no  shadow  before  the  moon  / 

And  suddenly  under  the  stars,  sonorous  and 
vibrant  as  far  cathedral  bells,  the  voices  of  the 
awakening  watchmen  chanted, — Ave  Maria 
Purisimal  —  las  tres  de  la  manana,y  tiempo 
serenol 


THE  NAME  ON  THE  STONE1 

"As  surely  as  the  wild  bird  seeks  the  sum- 
mer, you  will  come  back,"  she  whispered.  "Is 
there  a  drop  of  blood  in  your  veins  that  does  not 
grow  ruddier  and  warmer  at  the  thought  of  me? 
Does  not  your  heart  beat  quicker  at  this  mo- 
ment because  I  am  here?  It  belongs  to  me;  — 
it  obeys  me  in  spite  of  your  feeble  will;  —  it 
will  remain  my  slave  when  you  are  gone.  You 
have  bewitched  yourself  at  my  lips;  I  hold  you 
as  a  bird  is  held  by  an  invisible  thread;  and  my 
thread,  invisible  and  intangible,  is  stronger 
than  your  will.  Fly:  but  you  can  no  longer  fly 
beyond  the  circle  in  which  my  wish  confines 
you.  Go:  but  I  shall  come  to  you  in  dreams 
of  the  night;  and  you  will  be  awakened  by  the 
beating  of  your  own  heart  to  find  yourself  alone 
with  darkness  and  memory.  Sleep  in  whose 
arms  you  will,  I  shall  come  like  a  ghost  be- 
tween you;  kiss  a  thousand  lips,  but  it  will  be  I 
that  shall  receive  them.  Though  you  circle  the 
earth  in  your  wanderings,  you  will  never  be 
able  to  leave  my  memory  behind  you;  and  your 
1  Item,  October  9,  1880. 
98 


THE  NAME  ON  THE  STONE 

pulse  will  quicken  at  recollections  of  me  whether 
you  find  yourself  under  Indian  suns  or  North- 
ern lights.  You  lie  when  you  say  you  do  not 
love  me!  —  your  heart  would  fling  itself  under 
my  feet  could  it  escape  from  its  living  prison! 
You  will  come  back." 

* 
*        * 

And  having  vainly  sought  rest  through  many 
vainly  spent  years,  I  returned  to  her.  It  was  a 
night  of  wild  winds  and  fleeting  shadows  and 
strange  clouds  that  fled  like  phantoms  before 
the  storm  and  across  the  face  of  the  moon. 
"You  are  a  cursed  witch,"  I  shrieked,  "but  I 
have  come  back!" 

And  she,  placing  a  finger  —  white  as  the 
waxen  tapers  that  are  burned  at  the  feet  of  the 
dead  —  upon  my  lips,  only  smiled  and  whis- 
pered, "Come  with  me." 

And  I  followed  her. 

The  thunder  muttered  in  the  east;  the  hor- 
izon pulsated  with  lightnings;  the  night-birds 
screamed  as  we  reached  the  iron  gates  of  the 
burial-ground,  which  swung  open  with  a  groan 
at  her  touch. 

99 


FANTASTICS 

Noiselessly  she  passed  through  the  ranges  of 
the  graves;  and  I  saw  the  mounds  flame  when 
her  feet  touched  them,  —  flame  with  a  cold 
white  dead  flame  like  the  fire  of  the  glow-worm. 

Was  it  an  illusion  of  broken  moonlight  and 
flying  clouds,  or  did  the  dead  rise  and  follow  us 
like  a  bridal  train? 

And  was  it  only  the  vibration  of  the  thun- 
der, or  did  the  earth  quake  when  I  stood  upon 
that  grave? 

"Look  not  behind  you  even  for  an  instant," 
she  muttered,  "or  you  are  lost." 


* 
* 


But  there  came  to  me  a  strange  desire  to 
read  the  name  graven  upon  the  moss-darkened 
stone;  and  even  as  it  came  the  storm  unveiled 
the  face  of  the  moon. 

And  the  dark  shadow  at  my  side  whispered, 
"Read  it  not!" 

And  the  moon  veiled  herself  again.  "I  can- 
not go!  I  cannot  go!"  I  whispered  passion- 
ately, "until  I  have  read  the  name  upon  this 
stone." 

Then  a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  east  revealed 


THE  NAME  ON  THE  STONE 

to  me  the  name;  and  an  agony  of  memory  came 
upon  me;  and  I  shrieked  it  to  the  flying  clouds 
and  the  wan  lights  of  heaven! 

Again  the  earth  quaked  under  my  feet;  and 
a  white  Shape  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  grave 
like  an  exhalation  and  stood  before  me:  I  felt 
the  caress  of  lips  shadowy  as  those  of  the  fair 
phantom  women  who  haunt  the  dreams  of 
youth;  and  the  echo  of  a  dead  voice,  faint  as 
the  whisper  of  a  summer  wind,  murmured:  — 
"Love,  love  is  stronger  than  Death!  —  I  come 
back  from  the  eternal  night  to  save  thee!" 


APHRODITE  AND  THE  KING'S  PRISONER1 

COLUMNS  of  Corinthian  marble  stretching 
away  in  mighty  perspective  and  rearing  their 
acanthus  capitals  a  hundred  feet  above  the 
polished  marble  from  which  they  rose;  —  an- 
tique mosaics  from  the  years  of  Hadrian;  — 
Pompeiian  frescoes  limning  all  the  sacrifices 
made  to  Aphrodite;  —  naked  bronzes  uplifting 
marvelous  candelabra;  —  fantastically  beau- 
tiful oddities  in  terra  cotta;  —  miracles  of  art 
in  Pentelic  marble;  —  tripods  supporting  ves- 
sels of  burning  spices  which  filled  the  palace 
with  perfumes  as  intoxicating  as  the  Song  of 
Solomon;  —  and  in  the  midst  of  all  a  range 
of  melodious  fountains  amid  whose  waters 
white  nymphs  showed  their  smooth  thighs 
of  stone  and  curved  their  marble  figures  into 
all  the  postures  that  harmonize  with  beauty. 
Vast  gardens  of  myrtle  and  groves  of  laurel, 
mystic  and  shadowy  as  those  of  Daphne,  sur-» 
rounded  the  palace  with  a  world  of  deep  green, 
1  Item,  October  12,  1880. 
102 


APHRODITE  AND  KING'S  PRISONER 

broken  only  at  intervals  by  the  whiteness  of 
Parian  dryads;  — flowers  formed  a  living  car- 
pet upon  the  breadth  of  the  terraces,  and  a 
river  washed  the  eastern  walls  and  marble 
stairways  of  the  edifice.  It  was  a  world  of 
wonders  and  of  marvels,  of  riches  and  rarities, 
though  created  by  the  vengeance  of  a  king. 
There  was  but  one  human  life  amid  all  that 
enchantment  of  Greek  marble,  of  petrified 
loveliness  and  beauty  made  motionless  in 
bronze.  No  servants  were  ever  seen;  —  no 
voice  was  ever  heard;  —  there  was  no  exit  from 
that  strange  paradise.  It  was  said  that  the 
king's  prisoner  was  served  by  invisible  hands; 
—  that  tables  covered  with  luxurious  viands 
rose  up  through  the  marble  pavements  at 
regular  hours;  —  and  the  fumes  of  the  richest 
wines  of  the  Levant,  sweetened  with  honey, 
perfumed  the  chamber  chosen  for  his  repasts. 
All  that  art  could  inspire,  all  that  gold  might 
obtain,  all  that  the  wealth  of  a  world  could  cre- 
ate were  for  him,  —  save  only  the  sound  of  a 
human  voice  and  the  sight  of  a  human  face. 
To  madden  in  the  presence  of  unattainable 
loveliness,  to  consume  his  heart  in  wild  long- 
ings to  realize  the  ravishing  myth  of  Pygma- 


FANTASTICS 

lion,  to  die  of  a  dream  of  beauty,  —  such  was 
the  sentence  of  the  king! 

* 
*      * 

Lovelier  than  all  other  lovelinesses  created  in 
stone  or  gem  or  eternal  bronze  by  the  hands  of 
men  whose  lives  were  burnt  out  in  longings  for  a 
living  idol  worthy  of  then:  dreams  of  perfect 
beauty  —  a  figure  of  Aphrodite  displayed  the 
infinite  harmony  of  her  naked  loveliness  upon 
a  pedestal  of  black  marble,  so  broad  and  so 
highly  polished  that  it  reflected  the  divine 
poem  of  her  body  like  a  mirror  of  ebony  —  the 
Foam-born  rising  from  the  silent  deeps  of  a 
black  ^Egean.  The  delicate  mellowness  of  the 
antique  marble  admirably  mocked  the  tint  of 
human  flesh;  —  a  tropical  glow,  a  golden 
warmth  seemed  to  fill  the  motionless  miracle  — 
this  dream  of  love  frozen  into  marble  by  a 
genius  greater  than  Praxiteles;  no  modern  re- 
storer had  given  to  the  attitude  of  this  bright 
divinity  the  Christian  anachronism  of  shame. 
With  arms  extended  as  if  to  welcome  a  lover, 
all  the  exquisite  curves  of  her  bosom  faced 
the  eyes  of  the  beholder;  and  with  one  foot 
slightly  advanced  she  seemed  in.the  act  of  step- 
104 


APHRODITE  AND  KING'S  PRISONER 

ping  forward  to  bestow  a  kiss.  And  a  brazen 
tablet  let  into  the  black  marble  of  the  pedes- 
tal bore,  in  five  learned  tongues,  the  strange 
inscription:  — 

"Created  by  the  hand  of  one  maddened  by 
love,  I  madden  all  who  gaze  upon  me.  Mortal, 
condemned  to  live  in  solitude  with  me,  prepare 
thyself  to  die  of  love  at  my  feet.  The  old  gods, 
worshiped  by  youth  and  beauty,  are  dead;  and 
no  immortal  power  can  place  a  living  heart  in 
this  stony  bosom  or  lend  to  these  matchless 
limbs  the  warm  flexibility  and  rosiness  of  life." 


* 
*        * 


Around  the  chamber  of  the  statue  ran  a  mar- 
ble wainscoting  chiseled  with  Bacchanal  bas-re- 
liefs —  a  revel  of  rude  dryads  and  fauns  linking 
themselves  in  amorous  interfacings;  —  upon  an 
altar  of  porphyry  flickered  the  low  flame  of  the 
holy  fire  fed  with  leaves  of  the  myrtle  sacred  to 
love;  —  doves  for  the  sacrifice  were  cooing  and 
wooing  in  the  marble  court  without;  —  a  sound 
of  crystal  water  came  from  a  fountain  near  the 
threshold,  where  beautiful  feminine  monsters, 
whose  lithe  flanks  blended  into  serpent  coils, 
105 


FANTASTICS 

upheld  in  their  arms  of  bronze  the  fantastic  cup 
from  which  the  living  waters  leapt;  a  balmy, 
sensuous  air,  bearing  on  its  wings  the  ghosts  of 
perfumes  known  to  the  voluptuaries  of  Corinth, 
filled  the  softly  lighted  sanctuary;  —  and  on 
either  side  of  the  threshold  stood  two  statues, 
respectively  in  white  and  black  marble  — 
Love,  the  blond  brother  of  Death;  Death,  the 
dark  brother  of  Love,  with  torch  forever  ex- 
tinguished. 

And  the  King  knew  that  the  Prisoner  kept 
alive  the  sacred  fire,  and  poured  out  the  blood  of 
the  doves  at  the  feet  of  the  goddess,  who  smiled 
with  the  eternal  smile  of  immortal  youth  and 
changeless  loveliness  and  the  consciousness  of  the 
mighty  witchery  of  her  enchanting  body.  For 
secret  watchers  came  to  the  palace  and  said:  — 

"  When  he  first  beheld  the  awful  holiness  of 
her  beauty,  he  fell  prostrate  as  one  bereft  of 
life,  and  long  so  remained." 

And  the  King  musingly  made  answer:  — 

"Aphrodite  is  no  longer  to  be  appeased  with 
the  blood  of  doves,  but  only  with  the  blood  of 
men  —  men  of  mighty  hearts  and  volcanic 
passion.  He  is  youthful  and  strong  and  an  ar- 
tist! —  and  he  must  soon  die.  Let  the  weapons 
106 


APHRODITE  AND  KING'S  PRISONER 

of  death  be  mercifully  placed  at  the  feet  of 
Aphrodite,  that  her  victim  may  be  able  to  offer 
himself  up  in  sacrifice." 


Now  the  secret  messengers  were  eunuchs. 
And  they  came  again  to  the  palace,  and  whis- 
pered hi  the  ears  of  the  silver-bearded  King: — 

"He  has  again  poured  out  the  blood  of  the 
doves,  and  he  sings  the  sacred  Hymn  of  Homer, 
and  kisses  her  marble  body  until  his  lips  bleed; 

—  and  the  goddess  still  smiles  the  smile  of 
perfect  loveliness  that  is  pitiless." 

And  the  King  answered:  — 

"It  is  even  as  I  desire." 

A  second  time  the  messengers  came  to  the 
palace,  and  whispered  in  the  ears  of  the  iron- 
eyed  King:  — 

"He  bathes  her  feet  with  his  tears:  his  heart 
is  tortured  as  though  crushed  by  fingers  of  mar- 
ble; he  no  longer  eats  or  slumbers,  neither 
drinks  he  the  waters  of  the  Fountain  of  Bronze; 

—  and  the  goddess  still  smiles  the  mocking 
smile  of  eternal  and  perfect  loveliness  that  is 
without  pity  and  without  mercy." 

107 


FANTASTICS 

And  the  King  answered:  — 
"It  is  even  as  I  had  wished." 


* 
* 


So  one  morning,  in  the  first  rosy  flush  of  sun- 
rise, they  found  the  Prisoner  dead,  his  arms 
madly  flung  about  the  limbs  of  the  goddess  in  a 
last  embrace,  and  his  cheek  resting  upon  her 
marble  foot.  All  the  blood  of  his  heart,  gushing 
from  a  wound  in  his  breast,  had  been  poured  out 
upon  the  pedestal  of  black  marble;  and  it  trick- 
led down  over  the  brazen  tablet  inscribed 
with  five  ancient  tongues,  and  over  the  mosaic 
pavement,  and  over  the  marble  threshold  past 
the  statue  of  Love  who  is  the  brother  of  Death, 
and  the  statue  of  Death  who  is  the  brother  of 
Love,  until  it  mingled  with  the  waters  of  the 
Fountain  of  Bronze  from  which  the  sacrificial 
doves  did  drink. 

And  around  the  bodies  of  the  serpent- women 
the  waters  blushed  rosily;  and  above  the  dead, 
the  goddess  still  smiled  the  sweet  and  mocking 
:-mile  of  eternal  and  perfect  loveliness  that  hath 
no  pity. 

"Thrice  seven  days  he  has  lived  at  her  feet,'* 
108 


APHRODITE  AND  KING'S  PRISONER 

muttered  the  King;  "yet  even  I,  hoary  with 
years,  dare  not  trust  myself  to  look  upon  her 
ibr  an  hour!"  And  a  phantom  of  remorse,  like 
a  shadow  from  Erebus,  passed  across  his  face 
of  granite.  "Let  her  be  broken  in  pieces,"  he 
said,  "even  as  a  vessel  of  glass  is  broken." 

But  the  King's  servants,  beholding  the  white 
witchery  of  her  rhythmic  limbs,  fell  upon  their 
faces;  and  there  was  no  man  found  to  raise  his 
hand  against  the  Medusa  of  beauty  whose  love- 
liness withered  men's  hearts  as  leaves  are 
crisped  by  fire.  And  Aphrodite  smiled  down 
upon  them  with  the  smile  of  everlasting  youth 
and  immortal  beauty  and  eternal  mockery  of 
human  passion. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  GOLD  » 

(Tms  is  the  tale  told  in  the  last  hours  of  a 
summer  night  to  the  old  Spanish  priest  in  the 
H6tel  Dieu,  by  an  aged  wanderer  from  the  Span- 
ish Americas;  and  I  write  it  almost  as  I  heard  it 
from  the  priest's  lips.) 

"I  could  not  sleep.  The  strange  odors  of  the 
flowers;  the  sense  of  romantic  excitement  which 
fills  a  vivid  imagination  in  a  new  land;  the  sight 
of  a  new  heaven  illuminated  by  unfamiliar  con- 
stellations, and  a  new  world  which  seemed  to  me 
a  very  garden  of  Eden,  —  perhaps  all  of  these 
added  to  beget  the  spirit  of  unrest  which  con- 
sumed me  as  with  a  fever.  I  rose  and  went  out 
under  the  stars.  I  heard  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  soldiers,  whose  steel  corselets  glimmered  in 
the  ghostly  light;  —  the  occasional  snorting  of 
the  horses;  —  the  regular  tread  of  the  sentries 
guarding  the  sleep  of  their  comrades.  An  inex- 
plicable longing  came  upon  me  to  wander  alone 
into  the  deep  forest  beyond,  such  a  longing  as 
in  summer  days  in  Seville  had  seized  me  when 
1  Item,  October  15, 1880. 
110 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  GOLD 

I  heard  the  bearded  soldiers  tell  of  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  New  World.  I  did  not  dream  of 
danger;  for  in  those  days  I  feared  neither  God 
nor  devil,  and  the  Commander  held  me  the 
most  desperate  of  that  desperate  band  of  men. 
I  strode  out  beyond  the  lines;  —  the  grizzled 
sentry  growled  out  a  rough  protest  as  I  received 
his  greeting  in  sullen  silence;  —  I  cursed  him 
and  passed  on. 

"The  deep  sapphire  of  that  marvelous 
Southern  night  paled  to  pale  amethyst;  then 
the  horizon  brightened  into  yellow  behind  the 
crests  of  the  palm  trees ;  and  at  last  the  diamond- 
fires  of  the  Southern  Cross  faded  out.  Far  be- 
hind me  I  heard  the  Spanish  bugles,  ringing 
their  call  through  the  odorous  air  of  that  tropi- 
cal morning,  quaveringly  sweet  in  the  distance, 
faint  as  music  from  another  world.  Yet  I  did 
not  dream  of  retracing  my  steps.  As  in  a  dream 
I  wandered  on  under  the  same  strange  impulse, 
and  the  bugle-call  again  rang  out,  but  fainter 
than  before.  I  do  not  know  if  it  was  the  strange 
perfume  of  the  strange  flowers,  or  the  odors  of 
the  spice-bearing  trees,  or  the  caressing  warmth 
of  the  tropical  air,  or  witchcraft;  but  a  new 
in 


FANTASTICS 

sense  of  feeling  came  to  me.  I  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  been  able  to  weep:  I  felt  the 
old  fierceness  die  out  of  my  heart;  —  wild  doves 
flew  down  from  the  trees  and  perched  upon  my 
shoulders,  and  I  laughed  to  find  myself  caress- 
ing them  —  I  whose  hands  were  red  with 
blood,  and  whose  heart  was  black  with  crime. 

"And  the  day  broadened  and  brightened  into 
a  paradise  of  emerald  and  gold;  birds  no  larger 
than  bees,  but  painted  with  strange  metallic 
fires  of  color,  hummed  about  me;  —  parrots 
chattered  in  the  trees;  —  apes  swung  them- 
selves with  fantastic  agility  from  branch  to 
branch;  —  a  million  million  blossoms  of  inex- 
pressible beauty  opened  their  silky  hearts  to 
the  sun;  —  and  the  drowsy  perfume  of  the 
dreamy  woods  became  more  intoxicating.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  land  of  witchcraft,  such  as  the 
Moors  told  us  of  in  Spain,  when  they  spoke  of 
countries  lying  near  the  rising  of  the  sun.  And 
it  came  to  pass  that  I  found  myself  dreaming  of 
the  Fountain  of  Gold  which  Ponce  de  Leon 
sought. 

"Then  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  trees  be- 
112 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  GOLD 

came  loftier.  The  palms  looked  older  than  the 
deluge,  and  their  cacique-plumes  seemed  to 
touch  the  azure  of  heaven.  And  suddenly  I 
found  myself  within  a  great  clear  space,  ringed 
in  by  the  primeval  trees  so  lofty  that  all  within 
their  circle  was  bathed  in  verdant  shadow.  The 
ground  was  carpeted  with  moss  and  odorous 
herbs  and  flowers,  so  thickly  growing  that  the 
foot  made  no  sound  upon  their  elastic  leaves 
and  petals;  and  from  the  circle  of  the  trees  on 
every  side  the  land  sloped  down  to  a  vast  basin 
filled  with  sparkling  water,  and  there  was  a 
lofty  jet  in  the  midst  of  the  basin,  such  as  I  had 
seen  in  the  Moorish  courts  of  Granada.  The 
water  was  deep  and  clear  as  the  eyes  of  a  woman 
in  her  first  hours  of  love;  —  I  saw  gold-sprin- 
kled sands  far  below,  and  rainbow  lights  where 
the  rain  of  the  fountain  made  ripples.  It 
seemed  strange  to  me  that  the  jet  leaped  from 
nothing  formed  by  the  hand  of  man;  it  was  as 
though  a  mighty  underflow  forced  it  upward  in 
a  gush  above  the  bright  level  of  the  basin.  I 
unbuckled  my  armor  and  doffed  my  clothing, 
and  plunged  into  the  fountain  with  delight.  It 
was  far  deeper  than  I  expected;  the  crystalline 
purity  of  the  water  had  deceived  me  —  I  could 
"3 


FANTASTICS 

not  even  dive  to  the  bottom.  I  swam  over  to 
the  fountain  jet  and  found  to  my  astonishment 
that  while  the  waters  of  the  basin  were  cool 
as  the  flow  of  a  mountain  spring,  the  leaping 
column  of  living  crystal  in  its  centre  was  warm 
as  blood! 

"I  felt  an  inexpressible  exhilaration  from 
my  strange  bath;  I  gamboled  in  the  water  like 
a  boy;  I  even  cried  aloud  to  the  woods  and  the 
birds;  and  the  parrots  shouted  back  my  cries 
from  the  heights  of  the  palms.  And,  leaving 
the  fountain,  I  felt  no  fatigue  or  hunger;  but 
when  I  lay  down  a  deep  and  leaden  sleep  came 
upon  me,  —  such  a  sleep  as  a  child  sleeps  in  the 
arms  of  its  mother. 

"When  I  awoke  a  woman  was  bending  over 
me.  She  was  wholly  unclad,  and  with  her  per- 
fect beauty,  and  the  tropical  tint  of  her  skin, 
she  looked  like  a  statue  of  amber.  Her  flowing 
black  hair  was  interwoven  with  white  flowers; 
her  eyes  were  very  large,  and  dark  and  deep, 
and  fringed  with  silky  lashes.  She  wore  no  orna- 
ments of  gold,  like  the  Indian  girls  I  had  seen, 
—  only  the  white  flowers  in  her  hair.  I  looked 
114 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  GOLD 

at  her  wonderingly  as  upon  an  angel;  and  with 
her  tall  and  slender  grace  she  seemed  to  me, 
indeed,  of  another  world.  For  the  first  time  in 
all  that  dark  life  of  mine,  I  felt  fear  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman;  but  a  fear  not  unmixed  with 
pleasure.  I  spoke  to  her  in  Spanish;  but  she 
only  opened  her  dark  eyes  more  widely,  and 
smiled.  I  made  signs;  she  brought  me  fruits 
and  clear  water  in  a  gourd;  and  as  she  bent  over 
me  again,  I  kissed  her. 

"Why  should  I  tell  of  our  love,  Padre?  — 
let  me  only  say  that  those  were  the  happiest 
years  of  my  life.  Earth  and  heaven  seemed  to 
have  embraced  in  that  strange  land;  it  was 
Eden;  it  was  paradise;  never- wearying  love, 
eternal  youth !  No  other  mortal  ever  knew  such 
happiness  as  I;  —  yet  none  ever  suffered  so 
agonizing  a  loss.  We  lived  upon  fruits  and  the 
water  of  the  Fountain;  —  our  bed  was  the 
moss  and  the  flowers;  the  doves  were  our  play- 
mates; —  the  stars  our  lamps.  Never  storm  or 
cloud;  —  never  rain  or  heat;  —  only  the  tepid 
summer  drowsy  with  sweet  odors,  the  songs  of 
birds  and  murmuring  water;  the  waving  palms, 
the  jewel-breasted  minstrels  of  the  woods  who 
"5 


FANTASTICS 

chanted  to  us  through  the  night.  And  we  never 
left  the  little  valley.  My  armor  and  my  good 
rapier  rusted  away;  my  garments  were  soon 
worn  out;  but  there  we  needed  no  raiment,  it 
was  all  warmth  and  light  and  repose.  'We 
shall  never  grow  old  here,'  she  whispered.  But 
when  I  asked  her  if  that  was,  indeed,  the  Foun- 
tain of  Youth,  she  only  smiled  and  placed  her 
finger  upon  her  lips.  Neither  could  I  ever  learn 
her  name.  I  could  not  acquire  her  tongue;  yet 
she  had  learned  mine  with  marvelous  quick- 
ness. We  never  had  a  quarrel;  —  I  could  never 
find  heart  to  even  frown  upon  her.  She  was  all 
gentleness,  playfulness,  loveliness  —  but  what 
do  you  care,  Padre,  to  hear  all  these  things  ? 

"Did  I  say  our  happiness  was  perfect?  No: 
there  was  one  strange  cause  of  anxiety  which 
regularly  troubled  me.  Each  night,  while  lying 
in  her  arms,  I  heard  the  Spanish  bugle-call,  — 
far  and  faint  and  ghostly  as  a  voice  from  the 
dead.  It  seemed  like  a  melancholy  voice  calling 
to  me.  And  whenever  the  sound  floated  to  us, 
I  felt  that  she  trembled,  and  wound  her  arms 
faster  about  me,  and  she  would  weep  until  I 
kissed  away  her  tears.  And  through  all  those 
116 


THE   FOUNTAIN  OF   GOLD 

years  I  heard  the  bugle-call.  Did  I  say  years? 
—  nay,  centuries  I  —  for  in  that  land  one  never 
grows  old;  I  heard  it  through  centuries  after  all 
my  companions  were  dead." 

(The  priest  crossed  himself  under  the  lamp- 
light, and  murmured  a  prayer.  "Continue, 
hijo  mio,"  he  said  at  last;  "tell  me  all.") 

"It  was  anger,  Padre;  I  wished  to  see  for  my- 
self where  the  sounds  came  from  that  tortured 
my  life.  And  I  know  not  why  she  slept  so  deeply 
that  night.  As  I  bent  over  to  kiss  her,  she 
moaned  in  her  dreams,  and  I  saw  a  crystal  tear 
glimmer  on  the  dark  fringe  of  her  eyes  —  and 
then  that  cursed  bugle-call  — " 

The  old  man's  voice  failed  a  moment.  He 
gave  a  feeble  cough,  spat  blood,  and  went 
on:  — 

"I  have  little  time  to  tell  you  more,  Padre. 
I  never  could  find  my  way  back  again  to  the 
valley.  I  lost  her  forever.  When  I  wandered 
out  among  men,  they  spoke  another  language 
that  I  could  not  speak;  and  the  world  was 
changed.  When  I  met  Spaniards  at  last,  they 
117 


FANTASTICS 

spoke  a  tongue  unlike  what  I  heard  in  my 
youth.  I  did  not  dare  to  tell  my  story.  They 
would  have  confined  me  with  madmen.  I 
speak  the  Spanish  of  other  centuries;  and  the 
men  of  my  own  nation  mock  my  quaint  ways. 
Had  I  lived  much  in  this  new  world  of  yours,  I 
should  have  been  regarded  as  mad,  for  my 
thoughts  and  ways  are  not  of  to-day;  but  I  have 
spent  my  life  among  the  swamps  of  the  tropics, 
with  the  python  and  the  cayman,  in  the  heart 
of  untrodden  forests  and  by  the  shores  of  rivers 
that  have  no  names,  and  the  ruins  of  dead  In- 
dian cities,  —  until  my  strength  died  and  my 
hair  became  white  in  looking  for  her." 

"My  son,"  cried  the  old  priest,  "banish  these 
evil  thoughts.  I  have  heard  your  story;  and 
any,  save  a  priest,  would  believe  you  mad.  I 
believe  all  you  have  told  me;  —  the  legends  of 
the  Church  contain  much  that  is  equally 
strange.  You  have  been  a  great  sinner  in  your 
youth;  and  God  has  punished  you  by  making 
your  sins  the  very  instrument  of  your  punish- 
ment. Yet  has  He  not  preserved  you  through 
the  centuries  that  you  might  repent?  Banish 
all  thoughts  of  the  demon  who  still  tempts  you 
118 


THE   FOUNTAIN  OF  GOLD 

in  the  shape  of  a  woman;  repent  and  commend 
your  soul  to  God,  that  I  may  absolve  you." 

"Repent!"  said  the  dying  man,  fixing  upon 
the  priest's  face  his  great  black  eyes,  which 
flamed  up  again  as  with  the  fierce  fires  of  his 
youth;  "repent,  father?  I  cannot  repent!  I 
love  her!  —  I  love  her!  And  if  there  be  a  life 
beyond  death,  I  shall  love  her  through  all  time 
and  eternity:  —  more  than  my  own  soul  I  love 
her!  —  more  than  my  hope  of  heaven!  —  more 
than  my  fear  of  death  and  hell!" 

The  priest  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  covering  his 
face,  prayed  fervently.  When  he  lifted  his  eyes 
again,  the  soul  had  passed  away  unabsolved; 
but  there  was  such  a  smile  upon  the  dead  face 
that  the  priest  wondered,  and,  forgetting  the 
Miserere  upon  his  lips,  involuntarily  muttered: 
"He  hath  found  Her  at  last."  And  the  east 
brightened;  and  touched  by  the  magic  of  the 
rising  sun,  the  mists  above  his  rising  formed 
themselves  into  a  Fountain  of  Gold. 


A  DEAD  LOVE1 

HE  knew  no  rest;  for  all  his  dreams  were 
haunted  by  her;  and  when  he  sought  love,  she 
came  as  the  dead  come  between  the  living.  So 
that,  weary  of  his  life,  he  passed  away  at  last 
in  the  fevered  summer  of  a  tropical  city;  dying 
with  her  name  upon  his  lips.  And  his  face  was 
no  more  seen  in  the  palm-shadowed  streets; 
but  the  sun  rose  and  sank  as  before. 

And  that  vague  phantom  life,  which  some- 
times lives  and  thinks  in  the  tomb  where  the 
body  moulders,  lingered  and  thought  within  the 
narrow  marble  bed  where  they  laid  him  with 
the  pious  hope,  —  que  en  paz  descansa  I 

Yet  so  weary  of  his  life  had  the  wanderer 
been  that  he  could  not  even  find  the  repose  of 
the  dead.  And  while  the  body  sank  into  dust 
the  phantom  man  found  no  rest  in  the  darkness, 
and  thought  to  himself,  "I  am  even  too  weary 
to  rest!" 

There  was  a  fissure  in  the  wall  of  the  tomb. 

And  through  it,  and  through  the  meshes  of  the 

web  that  a  spider  had  spun  across  it,  the  dead 

1  Item,  October  21,  1880. 

1 20 


A  DEAD  LOVE 

looked,  and  saw  the  summer  sky  blazing  like 
amethyst;  the  palms  swaying  in  the  breezes 
from  the  sea;  the  flowers  in  the  shadows  of  the 
sepulchres;  the  opal  fires  of  the  horizon;  the 
birds  that  sang,  and  the  river  that  rolled  its 
whispering  waves  between  tall  palms  and  vast- 
leaved  plants  to  the  heaving  emerald  of  the 
Spanish  Main.  The  voices  of  women  and  sounds 
of  argentine  laughter  and  of  footsteps  and  of 
music,  and  of  merriment,  also  came  through 
the  fissure  in  the  wall  of  the  tomb;  —  some- 
times also  the  noise  of  the  swift  feet  of  horses, 
and  afar  off  the  drowsy  murmur  made  by  the 
toiling  heart  of  the  city.  So  that  the  dead 
wished  to  live  again;  seeing  that  there  was  no 
rest  in  the  tomb. 

And  the  gold-born  days  died  in  golden  fire; 
—  and  the  moon  whitened  nightly  the  face  of 
the  earth;  and  the  perfume  of  the  summer 
passed  away  like  a  breath  of  incense;  —  but 
the  dead  in  the  sepulchre  could  not  wholly 
die. 

The  voices  of  life  entered  his  resting-place; 
the  murmur  of  the  world  spoke  to  him  in  the 
darkness;  the  winds  of  the  sea  called  to  him 
through  the  crannies  of  the  tomb.  So  that  he 

121 


FANTASTICS 

could  not  rest.  And  yet  for  the  dead  there  is  no 
consolation  of  tears! 

The  stars  in  their  silent  courses  looked  down 
through  the  crannies  of  the  tomb  and  passed 
on;  the  birds  sang  above  him  and  flew  to  other 
lands;  the  lizards  ran  noiselessly  above  his  bed 
of  stone  and  as  noiselessly  departed;  the  spider 
at  last  ceased  to  renew  her  web  of  magical  silk; 
the  years  came  and  went  as  before,  but  for  the 
dead  there  was  no  rest! 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  after  many  tropical 
moons  had  waxed  and  waned,  and  the  summer 
was  come,  with  a  presence  sweet  as  a  fair  wo- 
man's, —  making  the  drowsy  air  odorous  about 
her,  —  that  she  whose  name  was  uttered  by  his 
lips  when  the  Shadow  of  Death  fell  upon  him, 
came  to  that  city  of  palms,  and  to  the  ancient 
place  of  burial,  and  even  to  the  tomb  that  was 
nameless. 

And  he  knew  the  whisper  of  her  robes;  and 
from  the  heart  of  the  dead  man  a  flower  sprang 
and  passed  through  the  fissure  in  the  wall  of  the 
tomb  and  blossomed  before  her  and  breathed 
out  its  soul  in  passionate  sweetness. 

But  she,  knowing  it  not,  passed  by;  and  the 
sound  of  her  footsteps  died  away  forever! 


AT  THE  CEMETERY1 

"  COME  with  me,"  he  said, "  that  you  may  see 
the  contrast  between  poverty  and  riches,  be- 
tween the  great  and  the  humble,  even  among 
the  ranks  of  the  dead;  —  for  verily  it  hath  been 
said  that  there  are  sermons  in  stones." 

And  I  passed  with  him  through  the  Egyptian 
gates,  and  beyond  the  pylons  into  the  Alley 
of  Cypresses;  and  he  showed  me  the  dwelling- 
place  of  the  rich  in  the  City  of  Eternal  Sleep,  — 
the  ponderous  tombs  of  carven  marble,  the 
white  angels  that  mourned  in  stone,  the  pale 
symbols  of  the  urns,  and  the  names  inscribed 
upon  tablets  of  granite  in  letters  of  gold.  But 
I  said  to  him : "  These  things  interest  me  not;  — 
these  tombs  are  but  traditions  of  the  wealth 
once  owned  by  men  who  dwell  now  where  riches 
avail  nothing  and  all  rest  together  in  the  dust." 

Then  my  friend  laughed  softly  to  himself, 
and  taking  my  hand  led  me  to  a  shadowy  place 
where  the  trees  bent  under  their  drooping  bur- 
dens of  gray  moss,  and  made  waving  silhou- 
ettes against  the  catacombed  walls  which  girdle 
1  Item,  November  i,  1880.  Hearn's  own  title. 
123 


FANTASTICS 

the  cemetery.  There  the  dead  were  numbered 
and  piled  away  thickly  upon  the  marble  shelves, 
like  those  documents  which  none  may  destroy 
but  which  few  care  to  read  —  the  Archives  of 
our  Necropolis.  And  he  pointed  to  a  marble 
tablet  closing  the  aperture  of  one  of  the  little 
compartments  in  the  lowest  range  of  the  cata- 
combs, almost  level  with  the  grass  at  our  feet. 

There  was  no  inscription,  no  name,  no 
wreath,  no  vase.  But  some  hand  had  fashioned 
a  tiny  flower-bed  in  front  of  the  tablet,  —  a 
little  garden  about  twelve  inches  in  width  and 
depth,  —  and  had  hemmed  it  about  with  a 
border  of  pink-tinted  seashells,  and  had  cov- 
ered the  black  mould  over  with  white  sand, 
through  which  the  green  leaves  and  buds  of  the 
baby  plants  sprouted  up. 

"Nothing  but  love  could  have  created  that," 
said  my  companion,  as  a  shadow  of  tenderness 
passed  over  his  face;  —  "and  that  sand  has 
been  brought  here  from  a  long  distance,  and 
from  the  shores  of  the  sea." 

Then  I  looked  and  remembered  wastes  that 

I  had  seen,  where  sand-waves  shifted  with  a 

dry  and  rustling  sound,  where  no  life  was  and 

no  leaf  grew,  where  all  was  death  and  barren- 

124 


AT  THE  CEMETERY 

ness.  And  here  were  flowers  blooming  in  the 
midst  of  sand !  —  the  desert  blossoming !  —  love 
living  in  the  midst  of  death!  And  I  saw  the 
print  of  a  hand,  a  child's  hand,  —  the  tiny  fin- 
gers that  had  made  this  poor  little  garden  and 
smoothed  the  sand  over  the  roots  of  the  flowers. 

"There  is  no  name  upon  the  tomb,"  said  the 
voice  of  the  friend  who  stood  beside  me;  "yet 
why  should  there  be?" 

Why,  indeed?  I  answered.  Why  should  the 
world  know  the  sweet  secret  of  that  child's 
love?  Why  should  unsympathetic  eyes  read 
the  legend  of  that  grief?  Is  it  not  enough  that 
those  who  loved  the  dead  man  know  his  place 
of  rest,  and  come  hither  to  whisper  to  him  hi  his 
dreamless  sleep? 

I  said  he;  for  somehow  or  other  the  sight  of 
that  little  garden  created  a  strange  fancy  in  my 
mind,  a  fancy  concerning  the  dead.  The  shells 
and  the  sand  were  not  the  same  as  those  usually 
used  in  the  cemeteries.  They  had  been  brought 
from  a  great  distance  —  from  the  moaning 
shores  of  the  Mexican  Gulf. 

So  that  visions  of  a  phantom  sea  arose  before 
me;  and  mystic  ships  rocking  in  their  agony 
upon  shadowy  waves;  —  and  dreams  of  wild 
125 


FANTASTICS 

coasts  where  the  weed-grown  skeletons  of 
wrecks  lie  buried  in  the  ribbed  sand. 

And  I  thought,  —  Perhaps  this  was  a  sailor 
and  perhaps  the  loving  ones  who  come  at  inter- 
vals to  visit  his  place  of  rest  waited  and  watched 
and  wept  for  a  ship  that  never  came  back. 

But  when  the  sea  gave  up  its  dead,  they  bore 
him  to  his  native  city,  and  laid  him  in  this  hum- 
ble grave,  and  brought  hither  the  sand  that  the 
waves  had  kissed,  and  the  pink-eared  shells 
within  whose  secret  spirals  the  moan  of  ocean 
lingers  forever. 

And  from  time  to  time  his  child  comes  to 
plant  a  frail  blossom,  and  smooth  the  sand 
with  her  tiny  fingers,  talking  softly  the  while, 
—  perhaps  only  to  herself,  —  perhaps  to  that 
dead  father  who  comes  to  her  in  dreams. 


"AIDA"' 

To  Thebes,  the  giant  city  of  a  hundred  gates, 
the  city  walled  up  to  heaven,  come  the  tidings 
of  war  from  the  south.  Dark  Ethiopia  has  risen 
against  Egypt,  the  power  "shadowing  with 
wings"  has  invaded  the  kingdom  of  the  Pha- 
raohs, to  rescue  from  captivity  the  beautiful 
Aida,  daughter  of  Amonasro,  monarch  of  Ethi- 
opia. Aida  is  the  slave  of  the  enchanting  Am- 
neris,  daughter  'of  Pharaoh.  Radames,  chief 
among  the  great  captains  of  Egypt,  is  beloved 
by  Amneris;  but  he  has  looked  upon  the  beauty 
of  the  slave-maiden,  and  told  her  in  secret  the 
story  of  his  love. 


And  Radames,  wandering  through  the  vast- 
ness  of  Pharaoh's  palace,  dreams  of  Aida,  and 
longs  for  power.  Visions  of  grandeur  tower  be- 
fore him  like  the  colossi  of  Osiris  in  the  temple 
courts;  hopes  and  fears  agitate  his  soul,  as  vary- 
ing winds  from  desert  or  sea  bend  the  crests  of 
the  dhoums  to  the  four  points  of  heaven.    In 
1  Item,  January  17,  1881.    Hearn's  own  title. 
127 


FANTASTICS 

fancy  he  finds  himself  seated  at  the  king's 
right  hand,  clad  with  the  robes  of  honor,  and 
wearing  the  ring  of  might;  —  second  only  to  the 
most  powerful  of  the  Pharaohs.  He  lifts  Aida 
to  share  his  greatness;  he  binds  her  brows  with 
gold,  and  restores  her  to  the  land  of  her  people. 
And  even  as  he  dreams,  Ramphis,  the  deep- 
voiced  priest,  draws  nigh,  bearing  the  tidings  of 
war  and  of  battle-thunder  rolling  up  from  the 
land  "shadowing  with  wings,"  which  is  beyond 
the  river  of  Ethiopia.  The  priest  has  consulted 
with  the  Veiled  Goddess,  —  Isis,  whose  awful 
face  no  man  may  see  and  live.  And  the  Veiled 
One  has  chosen  the  great  captain  who  shall 
lead  the  hosts  of  Egypt.  "O  happy  man!  — 
would  that  it  were  I! "  cries  Radames.  But  the 
priest  utters  not  the  name,  and  passes  down  the 
avenue  of  mighty  pillars,  and  out  into  the  day 
beyond. 


Amneris,  the  daughter  of  Pharaoh,  speaks 
words  of  love  to  Radames.  His  lips  answer,  but 
his  heart  is  cold.  And  the  subtle  mind  of  the 
Egyptian  maiden  divines  the  fatal  secret.  Shall 
she  hate  her  slave? 

128 


AIDA 

The  priests  summon  the  people  of  Egypt  to- 
gether; the  will  of  the  goddess  is  made  manifest 
by  the  lips  of  Pharaoh  himself.  Radames  shall 
lead  the  hosts  of  Egypt  against  the  dark  armies 
of  Ethiopia.  A  roar  of  acclamation  goes  up  to 
heaven.  Aida  fears  and  weeps;  it  is  against 
her  beloved  father,  Amonasro,  that  her  lover 
must  lead  the  armies  of  the  Nile.  Radames 
is  summoned  to  the  mysterious  halls  of  the 
Temple  of  Phthah:  —  through  infinitely  extend- 
ing rows  of  columns  illumined  by  holy  flames 
he  is  led  to  the  inner  sanctuary  itself.  The 
linen-mantled  priest  performs  the  measure  of 
their  ancient  and  symbolic  dance;  the  warrior 
is  clad  in  consecrated  armor;  about  his  loins  is 
girt  a  sacred  sword;  and  the  vast  temple  re- 
echoes through  all  its  deeps  of  dimness  the  har- 
monies of  the  awful  hymn  to  the  Eternal  Spirit 
of  Fire. 

The  ceremony  is  consummated. 
'  The  monarch  proclaims  tremendous  war. 
Thebes  opens  her  hundred  mouths  of  brass  and 
vomits  forth  her  nations  of  armies.  The  land 
shakes  to  the  earthquake  of  the  chariot-roll;  — 
numberless  as  ears  of  corn  are  the  spear-blades 
129 


FANTASTICS 

of  bronze;  —  the  jaws  of  Egypt  have  opened 
to  devour  her  enemies! 


* 
* 


Aida  has  confessed  her  love  in  agony;  Am- 
neris  has  falsely  told  her  that  her  lover  has 
fallen  in  battle.  And  the  daughter  of  Pharaoh 
is  strong  and  jealous. 


As  the  white  moon  moves  around  the  earth, 
as  the  stars  circle  in  Egypt's  rainless  heaven, 
so  circle  the  dancing-girls  in  voluptuous  joy 
before  the  king,  —  gauze-robed  or  clad  only 
with  jeweled  girdles;  —  their  limbs,  supple  as 
the  serpents  charmed  by  the  serpent  charmer, 
curve  to  the  music  of  harpers  harping  upon 
fantastic  harps.  The  earth  quakes  again;  there 
is  a  sound  in  the  distance  as  when  a  mighty  tide 
approaches  the  land  —  a  sound  as  of  the  thun- 
der-chanting sea.  The  hosts  of  Egypt  return. 
The  chariots  roar  through  the  hundred  gates  of 
Thebes.  Innumerable  armies  defile  before  the 
granite  terraces  of  the  Palace.  Radames  comes 
in  the  glory  of  his  victory.  Pharaoh  descends 
130 


AIDA 

from  his  throne  to  embrace  him.  "Ask  what 
thou  wilt,  0  Radames,  even  though  it  be  the 
half  of  my  kingdom!" 

And  Radames  asks  for  the  life  of  his  cap- 
tives. Amonasro  is  among  them;  and  Aida, 
beholding  him,  fears  with  an  exceeding  great 
fear.  Yet  none  but  she  knows  Amonasro ;  for  he 
wears  the  garb  of  a  soldier  —  none  but  she,  and 
Radames.  The  priests  cry  for  blood.  But  the 
king  must  keep  his  vow.  The  prisoners  are  set 
free.  And  Radames  must  wed  the  tall  and 
comely  Amneris,  Pharaoh's  only  daughter. 


* 
*        * 


It  is  night  over  Egypt.  To  Ramphis,  the 
deep-voiced  priest,  tall  Amneris  must  go.  It  is 
the  eve  of  her  nuptials.  She  must  pray  to  the 
Veiled  One,  the  mystic  mother  of  love,  to  bless 
her  happy  union.  Within  the  temple  burn  the 
holy  lights;  incense  smoulders  in  the  tripods  of 
brass;  solemn  hymns  resound  through  the  vast- 
pillared  sanctuary.  Without,  under  the  stars, 
Aida  glides  like  a  shadow  to  meet  her  lover. 


FANTASTICS 

It  is  not  her  lover  who  comes.  It  is  her  father! 
"Alda,"  mutters  the  deep  but  tender  voice  of 
Amonasro,  "thou  hast  the  daughter  of  Pha- 
raoh in  thy  power!  Radames  loves  thee!  Wilt 
thou  see  again  the  blessed  land  of  thy  birth? 
—  wilt  thou  inhale  the  balm  of  our  forests?  — 
wilt  thou  gaze  upon  our  valleys  and  behold  our 
temples  of  gold,  and  pray  to  the  gods  of  thy 
fathers?  Then  it  will  only  be  needful  for  thee 
to  learn  what  path  the  Egyptians  will  follow! 
Our  people  have  risen  in  arms  again!  Radames 
loves  thee!  —  he  will  tell  thee  all!  What!  dost 
thou  hesitate?  Refuse!  —  and  they  who  died 
to  free  thee  from  captivity  shall  arise  from  the 
black  gulf  to  curse  thee!  Refuse!  —  and  the 
shade  of  thy  mother  will  return  from  the  tomb 
to  curse  thee!  Refuse!  —  and  I,  thy  father, 
shall  disown  thee  and  invoke  upon  thy  head 
my  everlasting  curse!" 

* 

*        * 

Radames  comes!  Amonasro,  hiding  in  the 
shadow  of  the  palms,  hears  all.  Radames  be- 
trays his  country  to  Alda.  "  Save  thyself !  —  fly 
with  me!"  she  whispers  to  her  lover.  "Leave 
thy  gods;  we  shall  worship  together  in  the  tem- 
132 


AIDA 

pies  of  my  country.  The  desert  shall  be  our 
nuptial  couch!  —  the  silent  stars  the  witness  of 
our  love.  Let  my  black  hair  cover  thee  as  a 
tent;  —  my  eyes  sustain  thee;  —  my  kisses  con- 
sole thee."  And  as  she  twines  about  him  and 
he  inhales  the  perfume  of  her  lips  and  feels  the 
beating  of  her  heart,  Radames  forgets  country 
and  honor  and  faith  and  fame;  and  the  fatal 
word  is  spoken.  Napata  /  —  Amonasro,  from 
the  shadows  of  the  palm  trees,  shouts  the  word 
in  triumph!  There  is  a  clash  of  brazen  blades; 
Radames  is  seized  by  priests  and  soldiers: 
Amonasro  and  his  daughter  fly  under  cover  of 
the  night. 


Vainly  tall  Amneris  intercedes  with  the  deep- 
voiced  priest.  Ramphis  has  spoken  the  word: 
"  He  shall  die ! "  Vainly  do  the  priests  call  upon 
Radames  to  defend  himself  against  their  ter- 
rible accusations.  His  lips  are  silent.  He  must 
die  the  death  of  traitors.  They  sentence  him  to 
living  burial  under  the  foundations  of  the 
temple,  under  the  feet  of  the  granite  gods. 

* 
*        * 

133 


FANTASTICS 

Under  the  feet  of  the  deities  they  have  made 
the  tomb  of  Radames  —  a  chasm  wrought  in  a 
mountain  of  hewn  granite.  Above  it  the  weird- 
faced  gods  with  beards  of  basalt  have  sat  for  a 
thousand  years.  Their  eyes  of  stone  have  be- 
held the  courses  of  the  stars  change  in  heaven; 
generations  have  worshiped  at  their  feet  of 
granite.  Rivers  have  changed  then-  courses; 
dynasties  have  passed  away  since  first  they 
took  their  seats  upon  their  thrones  of  mountain 
rock,  and  placed  their  giant  hands  upon  their 
knees.  Changeless  as  the  granite  hill  from 
whose  womb  they  were  delivered  by  hieratic 
art,  they  watch  over  the  face  of  Egypt,  far- 
gazing  through  the  pillars  of  the  temple  into 
the  palm-shadowed  valley  beyond.  Their  will 
is  inexorable  as  the  hard  rock  of  which  their 
forms  are  wrought;  their  faces  have  neither 
pity /nor  mercy,  because  they  are  the  faces  of 
gods! 


The  priests  close  up  the  tomb;  they  chant 
their  holy  and  awful  hymn.  Radames  finds  his 
Aida  beside  him.   She  had  concealed  herself  in 
the  darkness  that  she  might  die  in  his  arms. 
134 


AIDA 

The  footsteps  of  the  priests,  the  sacred  hymn, 
die  away.  Alone  in  the  darkness  above,  at  the 
feet  of  the  silent  gods,  there  is  a  sound  as  of  a 
woman's  weeping.  It  is  Amneris,  the  daughter 
of  the  king.  Below  in  everlasting  gloom  the 
lovers  are  united  at  once  in  love  and  death. 
And  Osiris,  forever  impassible,  gazes  into  the 
infinite  night  with  tearless  eyes  of  stone. 


EL  V6MITO» 

THE  mother  was  a  small  and  almost  gro- 
tesque personage,  with  a  somewhat  mediaeval 
face,  oaken  colored  and  long  and  full  of  Gothic 
angularity;  only  her  eyes  were  young,  full  of 
vivacity  and  keen  comprehension.  The  daugh- 
ter was  tall  and  slight  and  dark;  a  skin  with 
the  tint  of  Mexican  gold;  hair  dead  black 
and  heavy  with  snaky  ripples  in  it  that  made 
one  think  of  Medusa;  eyes  large  and  of  al- 
most sinister  brilliancy,  heavily  shadowed  and 
steady  as  a  falcon's;  she  had  that  lengthened 
grace  of  dancing  figures  on  Greek  vases,  but 
on  her  face  reigned  the  motionless  beauty  of 
bronze  —  never  a  smile  or  frown.  The  mother, 
a  professed  sorceress,  who  told  the  fortunes  of 
veiled  women  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  burning 
before  a  skull,  did  not  seem  to  me  half  so  weird 
a  creature  as  the  daughter.  The  girl  always 
made  me  think  of  Southey's  witch,  kept  young 
by  enchantment  to  charm  Thalaba. 
1  Item,  March  21,  1881. 

* 
*         * 

136 


EL  VOMITO 

The  house  was  a  mysterious  ruin:  walls  green 
with  morbid  vegetation  of  some  fungous  kind; 
humid  rooms  with  rotting  furniture  of  a  luxu- 
rious and  antiquated  pattern;  shrieking  stair- 
ways; yielding  and  groaning  floors;  corridors 
forever  dripping  with  a  cold  sweat;  bats  under 
the  roof  and  rats  under  the  floor;  snails  moving 
up  and  down  by  night  in  wakes  of  phosphores- 
cent slime;  broken  shutters,  shattered  glass, 
lockless  doors,  mysterious  icy  draughts,  and 
elfish  noises.  Outside  there  was  a  kind  of  sav- 
age garden,  —  torchon  trees,  vines  bearing 
spotted  and  suspicious  flowers,  Spanish  bayo- 
nets growing  in  broken  urns,  agaves,  palmet- 
toes,  something  that  looked  like  green  ele- 
phant's ears,  a  monstrous  and  ill-smelling 
species  of  lily  with  a  phallic  pistil,  and  many 
vegetable  eccentricities  I  have  never  seen 
before.  In  a  little  stable-yard  at  the  farther 
end  were  dyspeptic  chickens,  nostalgic  ducks, 
and  a  most  ancient  and  rheumatic  horse,  whose 
feet  were  always  in  water,  and  who  made  night- 
mare meanings  through  all  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness. There  were  also  dogs  that  never  barked 
and  spectral  cats  that  never  had  a  kittenhood. 
Still  the  very  ghastliness  of  the  place  had  its 
137 


FANTASTICS 

fantastic  charm  for  me.  I  remained;  the  drowsy 
Southern  spring  came  to  vitalize  vines  and 
lend  a  Japanese  monstrosity  to  the  tropical 
jungle  under  my  balconied  window.  Unfamil- 
iar and  extraordinary  odors  floated  up  from 
the  spotted  flowers;  and  the  snails  crawled 
upstairs  less  frequently  than  before.  Then  a 
fierce  and  fevered  summer! 


'•  It  was  late  in  the  night  when  I  was  sum- 
moned to  the  Cuban's  bedside:  —  a  night  of 
Buch  stifling  and  motionless  heat  as  precedes 
a  Gulf  storm:  the  moon,  magnified  by  the 
Vapors,  wore  a  spectral  nimbus;  the  horizon 
pulsed  with  feverish  lightnings.  Its  white 
flicker  made  shadowy  the  lamp-flame  in  the 
sick-room  at  intervals.  I  bade  them  close  the 
windows.  "  El  Vdmito  ?"  —  already  delirious  ; 
strange  ravings;  the  fine  dark  face  phantom- 
shadowed  by  death;  singular  and  unfamiliar 
symptoms  of  pulsation  and  temperature;  ex- 
traordinary mental  disturbance.  Could  this 
be  Vdmito?  There  was  an  odd  odor  in  the 
room  —  ghostly,  faint,  but  sufficiently  per- 
138 


EL  VOMITO 

ceptible  to  affect  the  memory:  —  I  suddenly 
remembered  the  balcony  overhanging  the  Af- 
rican wildness  of  the  garden,  the  strange  vines 
that  clung  with  webbed  feet  to  the  ruined  wall, 
and  the  peculiar,  heavy,  sickly,  somnolent 
smell  of  the  spotted  blossoms!  —  And  as  I 
leaned  over  the  patient,  I  became  aware  of 
another  perfume  in  the  room,  a  perfume  that 
impregnated  the  pillow,  —  the  odor  of  a  wo- 
man's hair,  the  incense  of  a  woman's  youth 
mingling  with  the  phantoms  of  the  flowers, 
as  ambrosia  with  venom,  life  with  death,  a 
breath  from  paradise  with  an  exhalation  from 
hell.  From  the  bloodless  lips  of  the  sufferer, 
as  from  the  mouth  of  one  oppressed  by  some 
hideous  dream,  escaped  the  name  of  the  witch's 
daughter.  And  suddenly  the  house  shuddered 
through  all  its  framework,  as  if  under  the 
weight  of  invisible  blows:  —  a  mighty  shaking 
of  walls  and  windows  —  the  storm  knocking 
at  the  door. 


I  found  myself  alone  with  her;  the  moans 
of  the  dying  could  not  be  shut  out;  and  the 
storm  knocked  louder  and  more  loudly,  de- 
139 


FANTASTICS 

manding  entrance.  "It  is  not  the  fever,"  I  said. 
"I  have  lived  in  lands  of  tropical  fever;  your 
lips  are  even  now  humid  with  his  kisses,  and 
you  have  condemned  him.  My  knowledge 
avails  nothing  against  this  infernal  craft;  but 
I  know  also  that  you  must  know  the  antidote 
which  will  baffle  death;  —  this  man  shall  not 
die!  —  I  do  not  fear  you!  —  I  will  denounce 
you!  —  He  shall  not  die!" 

For  the  first  time  I  beheld  her  smile  —  the 
smile  of  secret  strength  that  scorns  opposition. 
Gleaming  through  the  diaphanous  whiteness 
of  her  loose  robe,  the  lamplight  wrought  in 
silhouette  the  serpentine  grace  of  her  body  like 
the  figure  of  an  Egyptian  dancer  in  a  mist  of 
veils,  and  her  splendid  hair  coiled  about  her 
like  the  viperine  locks  of  a  gorgon. 

"La  voluntad  de  mi  madrel"  she  answered 
calmly.  "You  are  too  late!  You  shall  not  de- 
nounce us!  Even  could  you  do  so,  you  could 
prove  nothing.  Your  science,  as  you  have  said, 
is  worth  nothing  here.  Do  you  pity  the  fly 
that  nourishes  the  spider?  You  shall  do  noth- 
ing so  foolish,  sefior  doctor,  but  you  will  cer- 
tify that  the  stranger  has  died  of  the  vdmito. 
You  do  not  know  anything;  you  shall  not  know 
140 


EL  VOMITO 

anything.  You  will  be  recompensed.  We  are 
rich."  —  Without,  the  knocking  increased,  as 
if  the  thunder  sought  to  enter:  I,  within, 
looked  upon  her  face,  and  the  face  was  passion- 
less and  motionless  as  the  face  of  a  woman  of 
bronze. 


She  had  not  spoken,  but  I  felt  her  serpent 
litheness  wound  about  me,  her  heart  beating 
against  my  breast,  her  arms  tightening  about 
my  neck,  the  perfume  of  her  hair  and  of  her 
youth  and  of  her  breath  intoxicating  me  as  an 
exhalation  of  enchantment.  I  could  not  speak; 
I  could  not  resist;  spellbound  by  a  mingling 
of  fascination  and  pleasure,  witchcraft  and 
passion,  weakness  and  fear  —  and  the  storm 
awfully  knocked  without,  as  if  summoning 
the  stranger;  and  his  moaning  ceased. 

* 

4>  * 

Whence  she  came,  the  mother,  I  know  not. 
She  seemed  to  have  risen  from  beneath:  — 

"The  doctor  is  conscientious!  —  he  cares 
for  his  patient  well.  The  stranger  will  need  his 
141 


FANTASTICS 

excellent  attention  no  more.  The  conscien- 
tious doctor  has  accepted  his  recompense;  he 
will  certify  what  we  desire,  —  will  he  not, 
hija  mia?" 

And  the  girl  mocked  me  with  her  eyes,  and 
laughed  fiercely. 


THE  IDYL  OF  A  FRENCH  SNUFF-BOX » 

THE  old  Creole  gentleman  had  forgotten  his 
snuff-box  —  the  snuff-box  he  had  carried  con- 
stantly with  him  for  thirty  years,  and  which 
he  had  purchased  in  Paris  in  days  when  Louisi- 
ana planters  traveled  through  Europe  leaving 
a  wake  of  gold  behind  them,  the  trail  of  a  trop- 
ical sunset  of  wealth.  It  was  lying  upon  my 
table.  Decidedly  the  old  gentleman's  memory 
was  failing! 

There  was  a  dream  of  Theocritus  wrought 
upon  the  ivory  lid  of  the  snuff-box,  created 
by  a  hand  so  cunning  that  its  work  had  with- 
stood unscathed  all  the  accidents  of  thirty  odd 
years  of  careless  usage  —  a  slumbering  dryad; 
an  amorous  faun! 

The  dryad  was  sleeping  like  a  bacchante 
weary  of  love  and  wine,  half-lying  upon  her 
side;  half  upon  her    bosom,   pillowing    her 
charming  head  upon  one  arm.  Her  bed  was  a 
mossy  knoll;  its  front  transformed  by  artis- 
tic magic  into  one  of  those  Renaissance  scroll- 
1  Item,  April  5,  1881.    Hearn's  own  title. 
143 


FANTASTICS 

reliefs  which  are  dreams  of  seashells;  her  ivory 
body  moulded  its  nudity  upon  the  curve  of 
the  knoll  with  antique  grace. 

Above  her  crouched  the  faun  —  a  beautiful 
and  mischievous  faun.  Lightly  as  a  summer 
breeze,  he  lifted  the  robe  she  had  flung  over 
herself,  and  gazed  upon  her  beauty.  But 
around  her  polished  thigh  clung  a  loving  snake, 
the  guardian  of  her  sleep;  and  the  snake  raised 
its  jeweled  head  and  fixed  upon  the  faun  its 
glittering  topaz  eyes. 

There  the  graven  narrative  closed  its  chapter 
of  ivory:  forever  provokingly  motionless  the 
lithe  limbs  of  the  dryad  and  the  serpent  thigh- 
bracelet  and  the  unhappily  amorous  faun 
holding  the  drapery  rigid  in  his  outstretched 
hand. 


I  fell  asleep,  still  haunted  by  the  unfinished 
idyl.  The  night  filled  the  darkness  with  whis- 
pers and  with  dreams;  and  in  a  luminous  cloud 
I  beheld  again  the  faun  and  the  sleeping  nymph 
and  the  serpent  with  topaz  eyes  coiled  about 
her  thigh. 

Then  the  scene  grew  clear  and  large  and 
144 


THE  IDYL  OF  A  FRENCH  SNUFF-BOX 

warm;  the  figures  moved  and  lived.  It  was  an 
Arcadian  vale,  myrtle-shadowed,  and  sweet 
with  the  breath  of  summer  winds.  The  brooks 
purled  in  the  distance;  bird  voices  twittered 
in  the  rustling  laurels;  the  sun's  liquid  gold 
filtered  through  the  leafy  network  above;  the 
flowers  swung  their  fragile  censers  and  sweet- 
ened all  the  place.  I  saw  the  smooth  breast 
of  the  faun  rise  and  fall  with  his  passionate 
panting;  I  fancied  I  could  see  his  heart  beat. 
And  the  serpent  stirred  its  jeweled  head  with 
the  topaz  eyes. 

Then  the  faun  moved  his  lips  in  sound  —  a 
sound  like  the  cooing  of  a  dove  in  the  coming 
of  summer,  and  an  answering  coo  rippled  out 
from  the  myrtle  trees.  And  softly  as  a  flake 
of  snow,  a  white-bosomed  thing  with  bright, 
gentle  eyes  alighted  beside  the  faun,  and  cooed 
and  cooed  again,  and  drew  yet  a  little  farther 
off  and  cooed  once  more. 

Then  the  serpent  looked  upon  the  dove  — 
which  is  sacred  to  Aphrodite  —  and  glided 
from  its  smooth!  resting-place,  as  water  glides 
between  the  fingers  of  a  hunter  who  drinks 
from  the  hollow  of  his  hand  in  hours  of  torrid 
heat  and  weariness.  And  the  dove,  still  retreat- 
145 


FANTASTICS 

ing,  drew  after  her  the  guardian  snake  with 
topaz  eyes. 

Then  with  all  her  body  kissed  by  the  summer 
breeze,  the  nymph  awoke,  and  her  opening 
eyes  looked  into  the  eager  eyes  of  the  faun;  and 
she  started  not,  neither  did  she  seem  afraid. 
And  stretching  herself  upon  the  soft  moss  af- 
ter the  refreshment  of  slumber,  she  flung  her 
rounded  arms  back,  and  linked  them  about 
the  neck  of  the  faun;  and  they  kissed  each 
other,  and  the  doves  cooed  in  the  myrtles. 

And  from  afar  off  came  yet  a  sweeter  sound 
than  the  caressing  voices  of  the  doves  —  a  long 
ripple  of  gentle  melody,  rising  and  falling  like 
the  sighing  of  an  amorous  zephyr,  melancholy 
yet  pleasing  like  the  melancholy  of  love  —  Pan 
playing  upon  his  pipe!  — 

There  was  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  door:  — 

"Pardon,  monjeune  ami;  foubliais  ma  taba- 
ti&ref  Ah!  la  void!  Jevous  remercie/"  — 

Alas!  the  vision  never  returned!  The  idyl 
remains  a  fragment!  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
became  of  the  dove  and  the  serpent  with  topaz 
eyes. 


SPRING  PHANTOMS* 

THE  moon,  descending  her  staircase  of  clouds 
in  one  of  the  "Petits  Poemes  en  Prose,"  enters 
the  chamber  of  a  newborn  child,  and  whispers 
into  his  dreams:  "Thou  shalt  love  all  that  loves 
me,  —  the  water  that  is  formless  and  multi- 
form, the  vast  green  sea,  the  place  where  thou 
shalt  never  be,  the  woman  thou  shalt  never 
know." 

For  those  of  us  thus  blessed  or  cursed  at  our 
birth,  this  is  perhaps  the  special  season  of  such 
dreams  —  of  nostalgia,  vague  as  the  world- 
sickness,  for  the  places  where  we  shall  never  be; 
and  fancies  as  delicate  as  arabesques  of  smoke 
concerning  the  woman  we  shall  never  know. 
There  is  a  languor  in  the  air;  the  winds  sleep; 
the  flowers  exhale  their  souls  in  incense;  near 
sounds  seem  distant,  as  if  the  sense  of  time  and 
space  were  affected  by  hashish;  the  sunsets 
paint  in  the  west  pictures  of  phantom-gold,  as 
of  those  islands  at  the  mere  aspect  of  whose 
beauty  crews  mutinied  and  burned  their  ships; 
1  Item,  April  21,  1881.  Hearn's  own  title. 
147 


FANTASTICS 

plants  that  droop  and  cling  assume  a  more 
feminine  grace;  and  the  minstrel  of  Southern 
woods  mingles  the  sweet  rippling  of  his  mocking 
music  with  the  moonlight. 

There  have  been  sailors  who,  flung  by  some 
kind  storm-wave  on  the  shore  of  a  Pacific 
Eden,  to  be  beloved  for  years  by  some  woman 
dark  but  beautiful,  subsequently  returned  by 
stealth  to  the  turmoil  of  civilization  and  labor, 
and  vainly  regretted,  in  the  dust  and  roar  and 
sunlessness  of  daily  toil,  the  abandoned  para- 
dise they  could  never  see  again.  Is  it  not  such 
a  feeling  as  this  that  haunts  the  mind  in  spring- 
time; —  a  faint  nostalgic  longing  for  the  place 
where  we  shall  never  be;  —  a  vision  made  even 
more  fairylike  by  such  a  vague  dream  of  glory 
as  enchanted  those  Spanish  souls  who  sought 
and  never  found  El  Dorado? 

Each  time  the  vision  returns,  is  it  not  more 
enchanting  than  before,  as  a  recurring  dream  of 
the  night  in  which  we  behold  places  we  can 
never  see  except  through  dream-haze,  gilded  by 
a  phantom  sun?  It  is  sadder  each  time,  this 
fancy;  for  it  brings  with  it  the  memory  of  older 
apparitions,  as  of  places  visited  in  childhoodf 
in  that  sweet  dim  time  so  long  ago  that  itt 
148 


SPRING  PHANTOMS 

dreams  and  realities  are  mingled  together  in 
strange  confusion,  as  clouds  with  waters. 

Each  year  it  comes  to  haunt  us,  like  the  vis- 
ion of  the  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities, —  the 
place  where  we  shall  never  be,  —  and  each  year 
there  will  be  a  weirder  sweetness  and  a  more 
fantastic  glory  about  the  vision.  And  perhaps 
in  the  hours  of  the  last  beating  of  the  heart, 
before  sinking  into  that  abyss  of  changeless 
deeps  above  whose  shadowless  sleep  no  dreams 
move  their  impalpable  wings,  we  shall  see  it 
once  more,  wrapped  in  strange  luminosity,  sub- 
merged in  the  orange  radiance  of  a  Pacific 
sunset,  —  the  place  where  we  shall  never  be! 

And  the  Woman  that  we  shall  never  know! 

She  is  the  daughter  of  mist  and  light,  —  a 
phantom  bride  who  becomes  visible  to  us  only 
during  those  magic  hours  when  the  moon  en- 
chants the  world;  she  is  the  most  feminine  of  all 
sweetly  feminine  things,  the  most  complaisant, 
the  least  capricious.  Hers  is  the  fascination  of 
the  succubus  without  the  red  thirst  of  the  vam- 
pire. She  always  wears  the  garb  that  most 
pleases  us  —  when  she  wears  any;  always 
adopts  the  aspect  of  beauty  most  charming  to 
us  —  blond  or  swarthy,  Greek  or  Egyptian, 
149 


FANTASTICS 

Nubian  or  Circassian.  She  fills  the  place  of  a 
thousand  odalisques,  owns  all  the  arts  of  the 
harem  of  Solomon:  all  the  loveliness  we  love 
retrospectively,  all  the  charms  we  worship  in 
the  present,  are  combined  in  her.  She  comes  as 
the  dead  come,  who  never  speak;  yet  without 
speech  she  gratifies  our  voiceless  caprice.  Some- 
times we  foolishly  fancy  that  we  discover  in 
some  real,  warm  womanly  personality,  a  trait 
or  feature  like  unto  hers;  but  time  soon  un- 
masks our  error.  We  shall  never  see  her  in  the 
harsh  world  of  realities;  for  she  is  the  creation 
of  our  own  hearts,  wrought  Pygmalionwise, 
but  of  material  too  unsubstantial  for  even  the 
power  of  a  god  to  animate.  Only  the  dreams  of 
Brahma  himself  take  substantial  form:  these 
are  worlds  and  men  and  all  their  works,  which 
shall  pass  away  like  smoke  when  the  preserver 
ceases  his  slumber  of  a  myriad  million  years. 
She  becomes  more  beautiful  as  we  grow  older, 
—  this  phantom  love,  born  of  the  mist  of  poor 
human  dreams,  —  so  fair  and  faultless  that  her 
invisible  presence  makes  us  less  reconciled  to 
the  frailties  and  foibles  of  real  life.  Perhaps  she 
too  has  faults;  but  she  has  no  faults  for  us  ex- 
cept that  of  unsubstantiality.  Involuntarily 
150 


SPRING  PHANTOMS 

we  acquire  the  unjust  habit  of  judging  real 
women  by  her  spectral  standard;  and  the  real 
always  suffer  for  the  ideal.  So  that  when  the 
fancy  of  a  home  and  children  —  smiling  faces, 
comfort,  and  a  woman's  friendship,  the  idea 
of  something  real  to  love  and  be  loved  by — • 
comes  to  the  haunted  man  in  hours  of  disgust 
with  the  world  and  weariness  of  its  hollow 
mockeries,  —  the  Woman  that  he  shall  never 
know  stands  before  him  like  a  ghost  with 
sweet  sad  eyes  of  warning,  —  and  he  dare  not! 


A  KISS  FANTASTICAL1 

CURVES  of  cheek  and  throat,  and  shadow  of 
loose  hair,  —  the  dark  flash  of  dark  eyes  under 
the  silk  of  black  lashes,  —  a  passing  vision 
light  as  a  dream  of  summer,  —  the  sweet  temp- 
tations of  seventeen  years'  grace,  —  woman- 
hood at  its  springtime,  when  the  bud  is  bursting 
through  the  blossom,  —  the  patter  of  feet  that 
hardly  touch  ground  in  their  elastic  movement, 
—  the  light  loose  dress,  moulding  its  softness 
upon  the  limbs  beneath  it,  betraying  much, 
suggesting  the  rest;  —  an  apparition  seen  only 
for  a  moment  passing  through  the  subdued 
light  of  a  vineshaded  window,  briefly  as  an  ob- 
ject illuminated  by  lightning,  —  yet  such  a 
moment  may  well  be  recorded  by  the  guardian 
angels  of  men's  lives. 

* 
*        * 

"Croyez-vous  qa?"  suddenly  demands  a  me- 
tallically sonorous  voice  at  the  other  side  of  the 
table. 

1  Item,  June  8,  1881.    Ream's  own  title. 
152 


A  KISS  FANTASTICAL 

"Pardon! — qu'est  ce  que  c'est?"  asks  the 
stranger,  in  the  tone  of  one  suddenly  awakened, 
internally  annoyed  at  being  disturbed,  yet 
anxious  to  appear  deeply  interested.  They  had 
been  talking  of  Japan  —  and  the  traveler,  sud- 
denly regaining  the  clue  of  the  conversation, 
spoke  of  a  bath-house  at  Yokohama,  and  of 
strange  things  he  had  seen  there,  until  the  mem- 
ory of  the  recent  vision  mingled  fantastically 
with  recollections  of  the  Japanese  bathing- 
house,  and  he  sank  into  another  reverie,  leaving 
the  untasted  cup  of  black  coffee  before  him  to 
mingle  its  dying  aroma  with  the  odor  of  the 
cigarettes. 


For  there  are  living  apparitions  that  affect 
men  more  deeply  than  fancied  visits  from  the 
world  of  ghosts;  —  numbing  respiration  mo- 
mentarily, making  the  blood  to  gather  about 
the  heart  like  a  great  weight,  hushing  the  voice 
to  a  murmur,  creating  an  indescribable  oppres- 
sion in  the  throat,  —  until  nature  seeks  relief 
in  a  strong  sigh  that  fills  the  lungs  with  air 
again  and  cools  for  a  brief  moment  the  sudden 
fever  of  the  veins.  The  vision  may  endure  but 
153 


FANTASTICS 

an  instant  —  seen  under  a  gleam  of  sunshine, 
or  through  the  antiquated  gateway  one  passes 
from  time  to  time  on  his  way  to  the  serious 
part  of  the  city;  yet  that  instant  is  enough  to 
change  the  currents  of  the  blood,  and  slacken 
the  reins  of  the  will,  and  make  us  deaf  and 
blind  and  dumb  for  a  time  to  the  world  of 
SOLID  FACT.  The  whole  being  is  momentarily 
absorbed,  enslaved  by  a  vague  and  voiceless 
desire  to  touch  her,  to  kiss  her,  to  bite  her. 


* 
*        * 


The  lemon-gold  blaze  in  the  west  faded  out; 
the  blue  became  purple;  and  in  the  purple  the 
mighty  arch  of  stars  burst  into  illumination, 
with  its  myriad  blossoms  of  fire  white  as  a  wo- 
man's milk.  A  Spanish  officer  improved  a  mo- 
mentary lull  in  the  conversation  by  touching  a 
guitar,  and  all  eyes  turned  toward  the  musician, 
who  suddenly  wrung  from  his  instrument  the 
nervous,  passionate,  semi-barbaric  melody  of 
a  Spanish  dance.  For  a  moment  he  played  to  an 
absolutely  motionless  audience;  the  very  wav- 
ing of  the  fans  ceased,  the  listeners  held  their 
breath.  Then  two  figures  glided  through  the 
154 


A  KISS  FANTASTICAL 

vine-framed  doorway,  and  took  their  seats. 
One  was  the  Vision  of  a  few  hours  before  — 
a  type  of  semi-tropical  grace,  with  the  bloom  of 
Southern  youth  upon  her  dark  skin.  The  other 
immediately  impressed  the  stranger  as  the  ugli- 
est little  Mexican  woman  he  had  ever  seen  in 
the  course  of  a  long  and  experienced  life. 

She  was  grotesque  as  a  Chinese  image  of 
Buddha,  no  taller  than  a  child  of  ten,  but  very 
broadly  built.  Her  skin  had  the  ochre  tint  of 
new  copper;  her  forehead  was  large  and  dis- 
agreeably high;  her  nose  flat;  her  cheek-bones 
very  broad  and  prominent;  her  eyes  small, 
deeply  set,  and  gray  as  pearls;  her  mouth  alone 
small,  passionate,  and  pouting,  with  rather 
thick  lips,  relieved  the  coarseness  of  her  face. 
Although  so  compactly  built,  she  had  no  aspect 
of  plumpness  or  fleshiness:  —  she  had  the  phy- 
sical air  of  one  of  those  little  Mexican  fillies 
which  are  all  nerve  and  sinew.  Both  women 
were  in  white;  and  the  dress  of  the  little  Mexi- 
can was  short  enough  to  expose  a  very  pretty 
foot  and  well-turned  ankle. 


155 


FANTASTICS 

Another  beautiful  woman  would  scarcely 
have  diverted  the  stranger's  attention  from  the 
belle  of  the  party  that  night;  but  that  Mexi- 
can was  so  infernally  ugly,  and  so  devilishly 
comical,  that  he  could  not  remove  his  eyes 
from  her  grotesque  little  face.  He  could  not 
help  remarking  that  her  smile  was  pleasing  if 
not  pretty,  and  her  teeth  white  as  porcelain; 
that  there  was  a  strong,  good-natured  origi- 
nality about  her  face,  and  that  her  uncouth- 
ness  was  only  apparent,  as  she  was  the  most 
accomplished  dancer  in  the  room.  Even  the 
belle's  movements  seemed  heavy  compared 
with  hers;  she  appeared  to  dance  as  lightly 
as  the  hummingbird  moves  from  blossom  to 
blossom.  By  and  by  he  found  to  his  astonish- 
ment that  this  strange  creature  could  fascinate 
without  beauty  and  grace,  and  play  coquette 
without  art;  also  that  her  voice  had  pretty 
bird  tones  in  it;  likewise  that  the  Spanish  cap- 
tain was  very  much  interested  in  her,  and  de- 
termined to  monopolize  her  as  much  as  possible 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  And  the  stranger 
felt  oddly  annoyed  thereat;  and  sought  to  con- 
sole himself  by  the  reflection  that  she  was  the 
most  fantastically  ugly  little  creature  he  had 
156 


A  KISS  FANTASTICAL 

seen  in  his  whole  life.  But  for  some  mysterious 
reason  consolation  refused  to  come.  "  Well,  I 
am  going  back  to  Honduras  to-morrow,"  he 
thought,  —  "and  there  thoughts  of  women  will 
give  me  very  little  concern." 


"I  protest  against  this  kissing,"  cried  the 
roguish  host  in  a  loud  voice,  evidently  referring 
to  something  that  had  just  taken  place  in  the 
embrasure  of  the  farther  window.  "On  fait 
venir  I'eau  dans  la  bouche  !  Monopoly  is  strictly 
prohibited.  Our  rights  and  feelings  must  be 
taken  into  just  consideration."  Frenzied  ap- 
plause followed.  What  difference  did  it  make? 
—  they  were  the  world's  Bohemians  —  here 
to-day,  there  to-morrow!  —  before  another 
moonrise  they  would  be  scattered  west  and 
south;  —  the  ladies  ought  to  kiss  them  all  for 
good  luck. 

*  * 

So  the  kiss  of  farewell  was  given  under  the 
great  gate,  overhung  by  vine-tendrils  drooping 
like  a  woman's  hair  love-loosened. 

* 

*  * 

157 


FANTASTICS 

The  beauty's  lips  shrank  from  the  pressure  of 
the  stranger's;  —  it  was  a  fruitless  phantom 
sort  of  kiss.  "  Y  yo,  senor,"  cried  the  little  Mexi- 
can, standing  on  tiptoe  as  she  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  Everybody  laughed  except  the 
recipient  of  the  embrace.  He  had  received  an 
electric  shock  of  passion  which  left  him  voice- 
less and  speechless,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
his  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

Those  carmine-edged  lips  seemed  to  have  a 
special  life  of  their  own  as  of  the  gymnotus  — 
as  if  crimsoned  by  something  more  lava- warm 
than  young  veins:  they  pressed  upon  his  mouth 
with  the  motion  of  something  that  at  once 
bites  and  sucks  blood  irresistibly  but  softly, 
like  the  great  bats  which  absorb  the  life  of 
sleepers  in  tropical  forests;  —  there  was  some- 
thing moist  and  cool  and  supple  indescribable 
in  their  clinging  touch,  as  of  beautiful  snaky 
things  which,  however  firmly  clasped,  slip 
through  the  hand  with  boneless  strength;  — 
they  could  not  themselves  be  kissed  because 
they  mesmerized  and  mastered  the  mouth 
presented  to  them;  —  their  touch  for  the  in- 
stant paralyzed  the  blood,  but  only  to  fill  its 
motionless  currents  with  unquenchable  fires  as 
158 


A  KISS   FANTASTICAL 

strange  as  of  a  tropical  volcano,  so  that  the 
heart  strove  to  rise  from  its  bed  to  meet  them, 
and  all  the  life  of  the  man  seemed  to  have  risen 
to  his  throat  only  to  strangle  there  in  its  effort 
at  self-release.  A  feeble  description,  indeed; 
but  how  can  such  a  kiss  be  described? 

Six  months  later  the  stranger  came  back 
from  Honduras,  and  deposited  some  small  but 
heavy  bags  in  the  care  of  his  old  host.  Then  he 
called  the  old  man  aside,  and  talked  long  and 
earnestly  and  passionately,  like  one  who  makes 
a  confession. 

The  landlord  burst  into  a  good-natured 
laugh,  "Ah  la  drdlel  —  la  vilaine  petite  drdle! 
So  she  made  you  crazy  also.  M on  cher,  you  are 
not  the  only  one,  pardieut  But  the  idea  of 
returning  here  on  account  of  one  kiss,  and  then 
to  be  too  late,  after  all!  She  is  gone,  my  friend, 
gone.  God  knows  where.  Such  women  are 
birds  of  passage.  You  might  seek  the  whole 
world  and  never  find  her;  again,  you  might  meet 
her  when  least  expected.  But  you  are  too  late. 
She  married  the  guitarrista." 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  GIRL1 

SUDDENLY,  from  the  heart  of  the  magnolia, 
came  a  ripple  of  liquid  notes,  a  delirium  of  mel- 
ody, wilder  than  the  passion  of  the  nightingale, 
more  intoxicating  than  the  sweetness  of  the 
night,  —  the  mockingbird  calling  to  its  mate. 

"Ah,  comme  c'est  coquet! — comme  c'est 
doux I"  —  murmured  the  girl  who  stood  by 
the  gateway  of  the  perfumed  garden,  hold- 
ing up  her  mouth  to  be  kissed  with  the  simple 
confidence  of  a  child. 

"Not  so  sweet  to  me  as  your  voice,"  he  mur- 
mured, with  lips  close  to  her  lips,  and  eyes 
looking  into  the  liquid  jet  that  shone  through 
the  silk  of  her  black  lashes. 

The  little  Creole  laughed  a  gentle  little  laugh 
of  pleasure.  "Have  you  birds  like  that  in  the 
West?"  she  asked. 

"In  cages,"  he  said.  "But  very  few.  I  have 
seen  five  hundred  dollars  paid  for  a  fine  singer. 
I  wish  you  were  a  little  mockingbird!" 

"Why?" 

1  Item,  June  14,  1881. 
160 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  GIRL 

"Because  I  could  take  you  along  with  me 
to-morrow." 

"And  sell  me  for  five  hundred  dol  —  ?"  (A 
kiss  smothered  the  mischievous  question.) 

"For  shame!" 

"Won't  you  remember  this  night  when  you 
hear  them  sing  in  the  cages?  —  poor  little  pris- 
oners!" 

"  But  we  have  none  where  I  am  now  going. 
It  is  all  wild  out  there;  rough  wooden  houses 
and  rough  men!  —  no  pets  —  not  even  a  cat! " 

"Then  what  would  you  do  with  a  little  bird 
in  such  a  place?  they  would  all  laugh  at  you  — 
would  n't  they?" 

"No;  I  don't  think  so.  Rough  men  love 
little  pets." 

"Little  pets!" 

"Like  you,  yes  —  too  well!" 

"Too  well?" 

"I  did  not  mean  to  say  that." 

"But  you  did  say  it." 

"I  do  not  know  what  I  say  when  I  am  look- 
ing into  your  eyes." 

"Flatterer!" 


161 


FANTASTICS 

The  music  and  perfume  of  those  hours  came 
back  to  him  in  fragments  of  dreams  all  through 
the  long  voyage;  — in  slumber  broken  by  the 
intervals  of  rapid  travel  on  river  and  rail;  the 
crash  of  loading  under  the  flickering  yellow  of 
pine-fires;  the  steam  song  of  boats  chanting 
welcome  or  warning;  voices  of  mate  and  rousta- 
bout; the  roar  of  railroad  depots;  the  rumble  of 
baggage  in  air  heavy  with  the  oily  breath  of 
perspiring  locomotives;  the  demands  of  conduc- 
tors; the  announcement  of  stations;  —  and  at 
last  the  heavy  jolting  of  the  Western  stage  over 
rugged  roads  where  the  soil  had  a  faint  pink 
flush,  and  great  coarse  yellow  flowers  were 
growing. 


So  the  days  and  weeks  and  months  passed  on; 
and  the  far  Western  village  with  its  single  glar- 
ing street  of  white  sand,  blazed  under  the  sum- 
mer sun.  At  intervals  came  the  United  States 
mail-courier,  booted  and  spurred  and  armed 
to  the  teeth,  bearing  with  him  always  one  small 
satiny  note,  stamped  with  the  postmark  of  New 
Orleans,  and  faintly  perfumed  as  by  the  ghost 
of  a  magnolia. 

162 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  GIRL 

"Smells  like  a  woman  —  that,"  the  bronzed 
rider  sometimes  growled  out  as  he  delivered  the 
delicate  missive  with  an  unusually  pleasant 
flash  in  his  great  falcon  eyes,  —  eyes  made 
fiercely  keen  by  watching  the  horizon  cut  by 
the  fantastic  outline  of  Indian  graves,  the  spiral 
flight  of  savage  smoke  far  off  which  signals 
danger,  and  the  spiral  flight  of  vultures  which 
signals  death. 

One  day  he  came  without  a  letter  for  the 
engineer  —  "She's  forgotten  you  this  week, 
Cap,"  he  said  in  answer  to  the  interrogating 
look,  and  rode  away  through  the  belt  of  woods, 
redolent  of  resinous  gums  and  down  the  wind- 
ing ways  to  the  plain,  where  the  eyeless  buffalo 
skulls  glimmered  under  the  sun.  Thus  he  came 
and  thus  departed  through  the  rosiness  of 
many  a  Western  sunset,  and  brought  no  smile 
to  the  expectant  face:  "She's  forgotten  you 
again,  Cap." 


And  one  tepid  night  (the  24th  of  August, 

1 8 — ),  from  the  spicy  shadows  of  the  woods 

there  rang  out  a  bird- voice  with  strange  exotic 

tones:  "Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!"  —  then  cas- 

163 


FANTASTICS 

cades  of  dashing  silver  melody!  —  then  long, 
liquid,  passionate  calls!  —  then  a  deep,  rich 
ripple  of  caressing  mellow  notes,  as  of  love 
languor  oppressed  that  seeks  to  laugh.  Men 
rose  and  went  out  under  the  moon  to  listen. 
There  was  something  at  once  terribly  and  ten- 
derly familiar  to  at  least  One  in  those  sounds. 

"What  in  Christ's  name  is  that?"  whis- 
pered a  miner,  as  the  melody  quivered  far  up 
the  white  street. 

"It  is  a  mockingbird,"  answered  another 
who  had  lived  in  lands  of  palmetto  and  palm. 

And  as  the  engineer  listened,  there  seemed 
to  float  to  him  the  flower-odors  of  a  sunnier 
land;  —  the  Western  hills  faded  as  clouds 
fade  out  of  the  sky;  and  before  him  lay  once 
more  the  fan-  streets  of  a  far  city,  glimmering 
with  the  Mexican  silver  of  Southern  moon- 
light;—  again  he  saw  the  rigging  of  masts 
making  cobweb  lines  across  the  faces  of  stars 
and  white  steamers  sleeping  in  ranks  along 
the  river's  crescent-curve,  and  cottages  vine- 
garlanded  or  banana-shadowed,  and  woods  in 
their  dreamy  drapery  of  Spanish  moss. 

* 
*        * 

164 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  GIRL 

"  Got  something  for  you  this  time,"  said  the 
United  States  mail-carrier,  riding  in  weeks 
later  with  his  bronzed  face  made  lurid  by  the 
sanguine  glow  of  sunset.  He  did  not  say  "  Cap  " 
this  time;  neither  did  he  smile.  The  envelope 
was  larger  than  usual.  The  handwriting  was 
the  handwriting  of  a  man.  It  contained  only 
these  words:  — 

DEAR ,  Hortense  is  dead.  It  happened 

very  suddenly  on  the  night  of  the  24th.  Come 
home  at  once. 

S . 


THE  TALE  OF  A  FAN1 

PAH!  it  is  too  devilishly  hot  to  write  any- 
thing about  anything  practical  and  serious  — 
let  us  dream  dreams. 

We  picked  up  a  little  fan  in  a  street-car  the 
other  day,  —  a  Japanese  fabric,  with  bursts  of 
blue  sky  upon  it,  and  grotesque  foliage  sharply 
cut  against  a  horizon  of  white  paper;  and  won- 
derful clouds  as  pink  as  Love,  and  birds  of 
form  as  unfamiliar  as  the  extinct  wonders  of 
ornithology  resurrected  by  Cuvieresque  art. 
Where  did  those  Japanese  get  their  exquisite 
taste  for  color  and  tint-contrasts?  —  is  their 
sky  so  divinely  blue?  —  are  their  sunsets  so 
virginally  carnation?  —  are  the  breasts  of  their 
maidens  and  the  milky  peaks  of  their  moun- 
tains so  white? 

But  the  fairy  colors  were  less  strongly  sug- 
gestive than  something  impalpable,  invisible, 
indescribable,    yet    voluptuously    enchanting 
which  clung  to  the  fan  spirit- wise,  —  a  tender 
little    scent,  —  a    mischievous    perfume,  —  a 
1  Item,  July  i,  1881.    Hearn's  own  title. 
166 


THE  TALE  OF  A  FAN 

titillating,  tantalizing  aroma,  —  an  odor  inspi- 
rational as  of  the  sacred  gums  whose  incense 
intoxicates  the  priests  of  oracles.  Did  you  ever 
lay  your  hand  upon  a  pillow  covered  with  the 
living  supple  silk  of  a  woman's  hair?  Well, 
the  intoxicating  odor  of  that  hair  is  something 
not  to  be  forgotten:  if  we  might  try  to  imagine 
what  the  ambrosial  odors  of  paradise  are,  we 
dare  not  compare  them  to  anything  else;  — 
the  odor  of  youth  in  its  pliancy,  flexibility, 
rounded  softness,  delicious  coolness,  dove- 
daintiness,  delightful  plasticity,  —  all  that 
suggests  slenderness  graceful  as  a  Venetian 
wineglass,  and  suppleness  as  downy-soft  as 
the  necks  of  swans. 

Naturally  that  little  aroma  itself  provoked 
fancies;  —  as  we  looked  at  the  fan  we  could 
almost  evoke  the  spirit  of  a  hand  and  arm,  of 
phantom  ivory,  the  glimmer  of  a  ghostly  ring, 
the  shimmer  of  spectral  lace  about  the  wrist;  — 
but  nothing  more.  Yet  it  seemed  to  us  that 
even  odors  might  be  analyzed;  that  perhaps 
in  some  future  age  men  might  describe  persons 
they  had  never  seen  by  such  individual  aromas, 
just  as  in  the  Arabian  tale  one  describes  mi- 
167 


FANTASTICS 

nutely  a  maimed  camel  and  its  burthen  which 
he  has  never  beheld. 

There  are  blond  and  brunette  odors;  —  the 
white  rose  is  sweet,  but  the  ruddy  is  sweeter; 
the  perfume  of  pallid  flowers  may  be  potent, 
as  that  of  the  tuberose  whose  intensity  sickens 
with  surfeit  of  pleasures,  but  the  odors  of 
deeply  tinted  flowers  are  passionate  and  sa- 
tiate not,  quenching  desire  only  to  rekindle  it. 

There  are  human  blossoms  more  delicious 
than  any  rose's  heart  nestling  in  pink.  There 
is  a  sharp,  tart,  invigorating,  penetrating, 
tropical  sweetness  in  brunette  perfumes;  blond 
odors  are  either  faint  as  those  of  a  Chinese 
yellow  rose,  or  fiercely  ravishing  as  that  of 
the  white  jessamine  —  so  bewitching  for  the 
moment,  but  which  few  can  endure  all  night 
in  the  sleeping-room,  making  the  heart  of  the 
sleeper  faint. 


Now  the  odor  of  the  fan  was  not  a  blond 
odor:  —  it  was  sharply  sweet  as  new  mown 
hay  in  autumn,  keenly  pleasant  as  a  clear 
breeze  blowing  over  sea  foam:  —  what  were 
frankincense  and  spikenard  and  cinnamon  and 
168 


THE  TALE  OF  A  FAN 

all  the  odors  of  the  merchant  compared  with 
it?  —  what  could  have  been  compared  with  it, 
indeed,  save  the  smell  of  the  garments  of  the 
young  Shulamitess  or  the  whispering  robes  of 
the  Queen  of  Sheba?  And  these  were  brunettes. 
The  strength  of  living  perfumes  evidences 
the  comparative  intensity  of  the  life  exhaling 
them.  Strong  sweet  odors  bespeak  the  vigor 
of  youth  in  blossom.  Intensity  of  life  in  the 
brunette  is  usually  coincident  with  nervous 
activity  and  slender  elegance.  —  Young,  slen- 
derly graceful,  with  dark  eyes  and  hair,  skin 
probably  a  Spanish  olive!  —  did  such  an  one 

lose  a  little  Japanese  fan  in  car  No. of  the 

C.  C.  R.  R.  during  the  slumberous  heat  of 
Wednesday  morning? 


A  LEGEND  » 

AND  it  came  to  pass  in  those  days  that  a 
plague  fell  upon  mankind,  slaying  only  the 
males  and  sparing  the  females  for  some  mysteri- 
ous reason. 

So  that  there  was  only  one  man  left  alive 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth;  and  he  was  remark- 
ably fair  to  behold  and  comely  and  vigorous 
as  an  elephant. 

And  feeling  the  difficulties  of  his  position, 
the  man  fled  away  to  the  mountains,  armed 
with  a  Winchester  rifle,  and  lived  among  the 
wild  beasts  of  the  forest.  .  .  . 

And  the  women  pursued  after  him  and  sur- 
rounded the  mountain;  and  prevailed  upon  the 
man,  with  subtle  arguments  and  pleasant 
words,  that  he  should  deliver  himself  up  into 
their  hands. 

And  they  made  a  treaty  with  him,  that  he 
should  be  defended  from  ill-usage  and  pro- 
tected from  fury  and  guarded  about  night 
and  day  with  a  guard. 

1  Item,  July  21, 1881.    Hearn's  own  title. 
170 


A  LEGEND 

And  the  guard  was  officered  by  women  who 
were  philosophers,  and  who  cared  for  nothing 
in  this  world  beyond  that  which  is  strictly 
scientific  and  matter  of  fact,  so  that  they  were 
above  all  the  temptations  of  this  world. 

And  the  man  was  lodged  in  a  palace,  and 
nourished  with  all  the  dainties  of  the  world, 
but  was  not  suffered  to  go  forth,  or  to  show 
himself  in  the  streets;  forasmuch  as  he  was 
guarded  even  as  a  queen  bee  is  guarded  in  the 
hive. 

Neither  was  he  suffered  to  occupy  his  mind 
with  grave  questions  or  to  read  serious  books 
or  discourse  of  serious  things  or  to  peruse 
aught  that  had  not  been  previously  approved 
by  the  committee  of  scientific  women. 

For  that  which  wearieth  the  brain  affecteth 
the  well-being  of  the  body. 

And  all  the  day  long  he  heard  the  pleasant 
plash  of  fountain  waters  and  inhaled  delicious 
perfumes,  and  the  fairest  women  in  the  world 
stood  before  him  under  the  supervision  of  the 
philosophers. 

And  a  great  army  was  organized  to  guard 
him;  and  great  wars  were  fought  with  the 
women  of  other  nations  on  his  account,  so  that 
171 


FANTASTICS 

nine  millions  and  more  of  strong  young  women 
were  killed. 

But  he  was  not  permitted  to  know  any  of 
these  things,  lest  it  might  trouble  his  mind; 
nor  was  he  suffered  to  hear  or  behold  aught 
that  can  be  unpleasant  to  mortal  ears.  He  was 
permitted  only  to  gaze  upon  beautiful  things  — 
beautiful  flowers  and  fair  women,  and  match- 
less statues  and  marvelous  pictures,  and  graven 
gems  and  magical  vases,  and  cunningly  de- 
vised work  of  goldsmiths  and  silversmiths. 
He  was  only  suffered  the  music  created  by  the 
fingers  of  the  greatest  musicians  and  by  the 
throats  of  the  most  bewitching  of  singers. 

And  once  a  year  out  of  every  ten  thousand 
women  in  the  world  the  fairest  one  and  the 
most  complete  in  all  things  was  chosen;  and 
of  those  chosen  ones  the  fairest  and  most  per- 
fect were  again  chosen;  and  out  of  these  again 
the  committee  of  philosophers  selected  one 
thousand;  and  out  of  these  thousand  the  man 
chose  three  hundred. 

For  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  whole  world; 
and  the  committee  of  philosophers  ordained 
that  he  should  be  permitted  to  remain  en- 
172 


A  LEGEND 

tirely  alone  for  sixty-five  days  in  the  year,  lest 
he  might  be,  as  it  were,  talked  to  death. 

At  first  the  man  fell  occasionally  in  love  and 
felt  unhappy;  but  as  the  committee  of  philoso- 
phers always  sent  unto  him  women  more  beau- 
tiful and  more  adorable  than  any  he  had  seen 
before,  he  soon  became  reconciled  to  his  lot. 

And  instead  of  committing  the  folly  of  loving 
one  woman  in  particular,  he  learned  to  love  all 
women  in  general. 

And  during  fifty  years  he  lived  such  a  life 
as  even  the  angels  might  envy. 
.    And  before  he  died  he  had  15,273  children, 
and  91,638  grandchildren. 

And  the  children  were  brought  up  by  the 
nation,  and  permitted  to  do  nothing  except  to 
perfect  their  minds  and  bodies. 

And  in  the  third  generation  the  descendants 
of  the  man  had  increased  even  to  two  millions 
of  males,  not  including  females,  who  were  in- 
deed few,  so  great  was  the  universal  desire  for 
males. 

And  in  the  tenth  generation  there  were  even 
as  many  males  as  females. 

And  the  world  was  regenerated. 


THE  GIPSY'S  STORY1 

THE  summer's  day  had  been  buried  in 
Charlemagne  splendors  of  purple  and  gold; 
the  Spanish  sable  of  the  night  glittered  with 
its  jewel-belt  of  stars.  The  young  moon  had 
not  yet  lifted  the  silver  horns  of  her  Moslem 
standard  in  the  far  east.  We  were  sailing  over 
lukewarm  waves,  rising  and  falling  softly  as  the 
breast  of  a  sleeper;  winds  from  the  south  bore 
to  us  a  drowsy  perfume  of  lemon-blossoms; 
and  the  yellow  lights  among  the  citron  trees 
seemed,  as  we  rocked  upon  the  long  swell,  like 
the  stars  of  Joseph's  dream  doing  obeisance. 
Far  beyond  them  a  giant  pharos  glared  at  us 
with  its  single  Cyclopean  eye  of  bloodshot  fire, 
dyeing  the  face  of  the  pilot  crimson  as  a  pome- 
granate. At  intervals  the  sea  amorously  lipped 
the  smooth  flanks  of  the  vessel  with  a  sharp 
sound;  and  ghostly  fires  played  about  our 
prow.  Seated  upon  a  coil  of  rope  a  guitarrista 
sang,  improvising  as  he  sang,  one  of  those 
sweetly  monotonous  ballads  which  the  Anda- 
lusian  gypsies  term  soleariyas.  Even  now  the 
1  Item,  August  18, 1881. 
174 


THE  GIPSY'S  STORY 

rich  tones  of  that  solitary  voice  vibrate  in  our 
memory,  almost  as  on  that  perfumed  sea,  under 
the  light  of  summer  stars:  — 

Sera, 

Para  mi  er  mayo  delirio 
Berte  y  no  poerte  habla. 

Gacho, 

Gacho  que  no  hab  ya  motas 
Es  un  barco  sin  timon. 

For  ti, 

Las  horitas  e  la  noche 
Me  las  paso  sin  dormi. 

Sereno, 

No  de  oste  la  boz  tan  arta 
Que  quieo  dormi  y  no  pueo.  ' 

Marina, 

Con  que  te  lavas  la  cara 
Que  la  tienes  tan  dibina? 

Why  he  told  me  his  story  I  know  not:  I 
know  only  that  our  hearts  understood  each 

other. 

* 

*        * 

"Of  my  mother,"  he  said,  "I  knew  little 
when  a  child;  I  only  remember  her  in  memories 
vague  as  dreams,  and  perhaps  in  dreams  also. 
For  there  are  years  of  our  childhood  so  mingled 
with  dreams  that  we  cannot  discern  through 
memory  the  shadow  from  the  substance.  But 
175 


FANTASTICS 

In  those  times  I  was  forever  haunted  by  a  voice 
that  spoke  a  tongue  only  familiar  to  me  in 
after  years,  and  by  a  face  I  do  not  ever  remem- 
ber to  have  kissed. 

"A  clear,  dark  face,  strong  and  delicate,  with 
sharp  crescent  brows  and  singularly  large  eyes, 
liquidly  black,  bending  over  me  in  my  sleep  — 
the  face  of  a  tall  woman.  There  was  some- 
thing savage  even  in  the  tenderness  of  the  great 
luminous  eyes,  —  such  a  look  as  the  hunter 
finds  in  the  eyes  of  fierce  birds  when  he  climbs 
to  their  nests  above  the  clouds;  and  this  dark 
dream-face  filled  me  with  strange  love  and  fear. 
The  hair,  flowing  back  from  her  temples  in  long 
ripples  of  jet,  was  confined  by  a  broad  silver 
comb  curved  and  gleaming  like  a  new  moon. 

"And  at  last  when  these  dreams  came  upon 
me,  and  the  half -fierce,  loving  eyes  looked  upon 
me  in  the  night,  I  would  awake  and  go  out 
under  the  stars  and  sob. 

"  A  vast  unrest  possessed  me;  a  new  heat 
throbbed  in  my  veins,  and  I  heard  forever 
flute-tones  of  a  strange  voice,  speaking  in  an 
unknown  tongue;  —  but  far,  far  off,  like  the 
sounds  of  words  broken  and  borne  away  in 
fragments  by  some  wandering  wind. 
176 


THE  GIPSY'S  STORY 

"Ocean  breezes  sang  in  my  ears  the  song 
of  waves,  —  of  waves  chanting  the  deep  hymn 
that  no  musician  can  learn,  —  the  mystic  hymn 
whereof  no  human  ear  may  ever  discern  the 
words,  —  the  magical  hymn  that  is  older  than 
the  world,  and  weirder  than  the  moon. 

"The  winds  of  the  woods  bore  me  odors  of 
tears  of  spicy  gums  and  the  sounds  of  bird- 
voices  sweeter  than  the  plaint  of  running  water, 
and  whispers  of  shaking  shadows,  and  the  re- 
frain of  that  mighty  harp-song  which  the  pines 
sing,  and  the  vaporous  souls  of  flowers,  and 
the  mysteries  of  succubus-vines  that  strangle 
the  oaks  with  love. 

"Winds  also,  piercing  and  cold  as  Northern 
eyes,  came  to  me  from  the  abysses  of  the  rocks, 
and  from  peaks  whose  ermine  of  snow  has  never 
since  the  being  of  the  world  felt  the  pressure 
of  a  bird's ^ foot;  and  they  sang  Runic  chants 
of  mountain  freedom,  where  the  lightnings 
cross  their  flickerings.  And  with  these  winds 
came  also  shadows  of  birds,  far  circling  above 
me,  with  eyes  fierce  and  beautiful  as  the  eyes 
of  my  dream. 


177 


FANTASTICS 

'  "So  that  a  great  envy  came  upon  me  of  the 
winds  and  waves  and  birds  that  circle  forever 
with  the  eternal  circling  of  the  world.  Nightly 
the  large  eyes,  half  fierce,  half  tender,  glim- 
mered through  my  sleep:  —  phantom  winds 
called  to  me,  and  shadowy  seas  chanted  through 
their  foam-flecked  lips  runes  weird  as  the  Runes 
of  Odin. 


"And  I  hated  cities  with  the  hatred  of  the 
camel,  —  the  camel  that  sobs  and  moans  on 
beholding  afar,  on  the  yellow  rim  of  the  des- 
ert, the  corpse-white  finger  of  a  minaret  point- 
ing to  the  dome  of  Mahomet's  heaven. 

"Also  I  hated  the  rumble  of  traffic  and  the 
roar  of  the  race  for  gold;  the  shadows  of  pal- 
aces on  burning  streets;  the  sound  of  toiling 
feet;  the  black  breath  of  towered  chimneys; 
and  the  vast  machines,  forever  laboring  with 
sinews  of  brass,  and  panting  with  heart  of 
steam  and  steel. 

"Only  loved  I  the  eyes  of  night  and  the 

women  eyes  that  haunted  me,  —  the  silence 

of  rolling  plains,    the  whispers  of  untrodden 

woods,  the  shadows  of  flying  birds  and  fleet- 

178 


THE  GIPSY'S  STORY 

ing  clouds,  the  heaving  emerald  of  waves,  the 
silver  lamentation  of  brooks,  the  thunder  roll 
of  that  mighty  hymn  of  hexameters  which  the 
ocean  must  eternally  sing  to  the  stars. 


"Once,  and  once  only,  did  I  speak  to  my 
father  of  the  dark  and  beautiful  dream  that 
floated  to  me  on  the  misty  waves  of  sleep. 
Once,  and  once  only;  for  I  beheld  his  face  grow 
whiter  than  the  face  of  Death. 

* 
*        * 

"Encompassed  about  by  wealth  and  pleas- 
ure, I  still  felt  like  a  bird  in  a  cage  of  gold. 
Books  I  loved  only  because  they  taught  me 
mysteries  of  sky  and  sea  —  the  alchemy  of 
suns,  the  magic  of  seasons,  the  marvels  of 
lands  to  which  we  long  forever  to  sail,  yet  may 
never  see.  But  I  loved  wild  rides  by  night,  and 
long  wrestling  with  waves  silver-kissed  by  the 
moon,  and  the  musky  breath  of  woods,  where 
wild  doves  wandered  from  shadow  to  shadow, 
cooing  love.  And  the  strange  beauty  of ,  the 
179 


FANTASTICS 

falcon  face,  that  haunted  me  forever,  chilled 
my  heart  to  the  sun-haired  maidens  who 
sought  our  home,  fair  like  tall  idols  of  ivory 
and  gold. 

"Often,  in  the  first  pinkness  of  dawn,  I  rose 
from  a  restless  sleep  to  look  upon  a  mirror; 
thirsting  to  find  in  my  own  eyes  some  dark 
kindred  with  the  eyes  of  my  dreams;  and  often 
I  felt  in  my  veins  the  blood  of  a  strange  race, 
not  my  father's. 

"I  saw  birds  flying  to  the  perfumed  South; 
I  watched  the  sea  gulls  seeking  warmer  coasts; 
I  cursed  the  hawks  for  their  freedom,  —  I 
cursed  the  riches  that  were  the  price  of  my 
bondage  to  civilization,  the  pleasures  that  were 
the  guerdon  of  my  isolation  among  a  people 
not  my  own. 

—  "'O  that  I  were  a  cloud,'  I  cried,  'to 
drift  forever  with  the  hollow  wind!  — O  that 
I  were  a  wave  to  pass  from  ocean  to  ocean, 
and  chant  my  freedom  in  foam  upon  the  rocks 
of  a  thousand  coasts!  —  O  that  I  might  live 
even  as  the  eagle,  who  may  look  into  the  face  of 
the  everlasting  sun!' 

"So  the  summer  of  my  life  came  upon  me, 
with  a  madness  of  longing  for  freedom  —  a 
180 


THE  GIPSY'S  STORY 

freedom  as  of  winds  and  waves  and  birds  — 
and  a  vague  love  for  that  unknown  people 
whose  wild  blood  made  fever  in  my  veins,  — 
until  one  starless  night  I  fled  my  home  forever. 

* 
*        * 

"I  slumbered  in  the  woods  at  last;  the  birds 
were  singing  in  the  emerald  shadows  above 
when  I  awoke.  A  tall  girl,  lithe  as  a  palm, 
swarthy  as  Egypt,  was  gazing  upon  me.  My 
heart  almost  ceased  to  beat.  I  beheld  in  the 
wild  beauty  of  her  dark  face  as  it  were  the 
shadow  of  the  face  that  had  haunted  me;  and 
in  the  midnight  of  her  eyes  the  eyes  of  my 
dream.  Circles  of  thin  gold  were  in  her  ears; 
—  her  brown  arms  and  feet  were  bare.  She 
smiled  not;  but,  keeping  her  great  wild  eyes 
fixed  upon  mine,  addressed  me  in  a  strange 
tongue.  Strange  as  India  —  yet  not  all  strange 
to  me;  for  at  the  sound  of  its  savage  syllables 
dusky  chambers  of  memory  long  unvisited 
reopened  their  doors  and  revealed  forgotten 
things.  The  tongue  was  the  tongue  spoken  to 
me  in  dreams  through  all  those  restless  years. 
And  she,  perceiving  that  I  understood,  al- 
181 


FANTASTICS 

though  I  spoke  not,  pointed  to  far  tents  beyond 
the  trees,  and  ascending  spirals  of  lazy  smoke. 

"  'Whithersoever we  go,  thou  shaltalsogo.' 
she  murmured.  'Thou  art  of  our  people;  the 
blood  that  flows  in  thy  veins  is  also  mine. 
We  have  long  waited  and  watched  for  thee, 
summer  by  summer,  in  those  months  when  the 
great  longing  comes  upon  us  all.  For  thy 
mother  was  of  my  people;  and  thou  who  hast 
sucked  her  breasts  mayst  not  live  with  the 
pale  children  of  another  race.  The  heaven  is 
our  tent;  the  birds  guide  our  footsteps  south 
and  north;  the  stars  lead  us  to  the  east  and 
west.  My  people  have  sought  word  of  thee 
even  while  wandering  in  lands  of  sunrise.  Our 
blood  is  stronger  than  wine;  our  kindred  dearer 
than  gold.  Thou  wilt  leave  riches,  pleasures, 
honors,  and  the  life  of  cities  for  thy  heart's 
sake;  and  I  will  be  thy  sister.' 

"And  I,  having  kissed  her,  followed  her  to 
the  tents  of  her  people,  —  my  people,  —  the 
world  wanderers  of  the  most  ancient  East." 


THE  ONE  PILL-BOX  « 

LIKE  Nebuchadnezzar's  furnace,  the  sun 
seemed  to  blaze  with  sevenfold  heat;  the  sky 
glowed  like  steel  in  the  process  of  blistering;  a 
haze  yellow  as  the  radiance  above  a  crucible 
gilded  the  streets;  the  great  plants  swooned  in 
the  garden  —  fainting  flowers  laid  their  heads  on 
the  dry  clay;  the  winds  were  dead;  the  Yellow 
Plague  filled  the  city  with  invisible  exhalations 
of  death.  A  silence  as  of  cemeteries  weighed 
down  upon  the  place;  commerce  slept  a  wast- 
ing slumber;  the  iron  muscles  and  brazen 
bones  of  wealth  machinery  relaxed,  and  lungs 
of  steel  ceased  their  panting;  the  ships  had 
spread  their  white  wings  and  flown;  the  wharves 
were  desolate;  the  cotton-presses  ceased  their 
mighty  mastication,  and  no  longer  uttered 
their  titanic  sighs. 


The  English  mill-master  had  remained  at 
1  Item,  October  12,  1881. 
183 


FANTASTICS 

his  post,  with  the  obstinate  courage  of  his  race, 
until  stricken  down.  There  was  a  sound  in  his 
ears  as  of  rushing  waters;  darkness  before  his 
eyes:  the  whispering  of  the  nurses,  the  orders 
of  the  physicians,  the  tinkling  of  glasses  and 
spoons,  the  bubbling  of  medicine  poured  out, 
the  sound  of  doors  softly  opened  and  closed, 
and  of  visits  made  on  tiptoe,  he  no  longer  heard 
or  remembered.  The  last  object  his  eyes  had 
rested  upon  was  a  tiny  white-and-red  pill-box, 
lying  on  the  little  table  beside  the  bed. 

The  past  came  to  him  in  shadowy  pictures 
between  dark  intervals  of  half-conscious  suf- 
fering—  of  such  violent  pain  in  thighs  and 
loins  as  he  remembered  to  have  felt  long  years 
before  after  some  frightful  fall  from  a  broken 
scaffolding.  The  sound  in  his  ears  of  rushing 
water  gradually  sharpened  into  a  keener  sound 
—  like  the  hum  of  machinery,  like  the  purring 
of  revolving  saws,  gnawing  their  meal  of  odor- 
ous wood  with  invisibly  rapid  teeth.  Odors  of 
cypress  and  pine,  walnut  and  oak,  seemed  to 
float  to  his  nostrils  —  with  sounds  of  planing 
and  beveling,  hammering  and  polishing,  sub- 
dued laughter  of  workmen,  loud  orders,  hurry- 
ing feet,  and  above  all  the  sharp,  trilling  purr 
184 


THE  ONE  PILL-BOX 

of  the  hungry  saws,  and  the  shaking  rumble  of 
the  hundred-handed  engines. 


He  was  again  in  the  little  office,  fresh  with 
odors  of  resinous  woods  —  seated  at  the  tall 
desk  whose  thin  legs  trembled  with  the  pal- 
pitation of  the  engine's  heart.  It  seemed  to 
him  there  was  a  vast  press  of  work  to  be 
done,  —  enormous  efforts  to  be  made,  —  in- 
tricate contracts  to  be  unknotted,  —  huge  es- 
timates to  be  made  out,  —  agonizing  errors 
to  be  remedied,  —  frightful  miscalculations  to 
be  corrected,  —  a  world  of  anxious  faces  impa- 
tiently watching  him.  Figures  and  diagrams 
swam  before  his  eyes,  —  plans  of  facades,  — 
mathematical  calculations  for  stairways,  — 
difficult  angles  of  roofs,  —  puzzling  arrange- 
ments of  corridors.  The  drawings  seemed  to 
vary  their  shape  with  fantastic  spitefulness; 
squares  lengthened  into  parallelograms  and 
distorted  themselves  into  rhomboids,  —  circles 
mockingly  formed  themselves  into  ciphers,  — 
triangles  became  superimposed,  like  the  nec- 
romantic six-pointed  star.  Then  numerals 


FANTASTICS 

mingled  with  the  drawings,  —  columns  of 
magical  figures  which  could  never  be  added  up, 
because  they  seemed  to  lengthen  themselves 
at  will  with  serpent  elasticity,  —  a  mad  pro- 
cession of  confused  notes  in  addition  and  sub- 
traction, in  division  and  multiplication,  danced 
before  him.  And  the  world  of  anxious  faces 
watched  yet  more  impatiently. 


All  was  dark  again;  the  merciless  pain  in 
loins  and  thighs  had  returned  with  sharp  con- 
sciousness of  the  fever,  and  the  insufferable 
heat  and  skull-splitting  headache  —  heavy 
blankets  and  miserable  helplessness  —  and  the 
recollection  of  the  very,  very  small  pill-box 
on  the  table.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  there  were 
other  pill-boxes  —  three!  nine!  twenty-seven! 
eighty-one!  one  hundred  and  sixty- two!  one 
hundred  and  sixty-two  very  small  pill-boxes. 


He  seemed  to  be  wandering  in  a  cemetery, 
under  blazing  sunlight  and  in  a  blinding  glare 
186 


THE  ONE  PILL-BOX 

of  whitewashed  tombs,  whose  skeletons  of 
brick  were  left  bare  in  leprous  patches  by  the 
falling  away  of  the  plastering.  And,  wandering, 
he  came  to  a  deep  wall,  catacombed  from  base 
to  summit  with  the  resting-places  of  ten  thou- 
sand dead;  and  there  was  one  empty  place 
—  one  black  void  —  inscribed  with  a  name 
strangely  like  his  own.  And  a  great  weariness 
and  faintness  came  upon  him;  and  the  pains, 
returning,  carried  back  his  thoughts  to  the 
warmth  and  dimness  of  the  sick-room. 


* 
* 


It  seemed  to  him  that  this  could  not  be 
death  —  he  was  too  weary  even  to  die!  But 
they  would  put  him  into  the  hollow  void  in  the 
wall!  —  they  might:  he  would  not  resist,  he 
felt  no  fear.  He  could  rest  there  very  well  even 
for  a  hundred  years.  He  had  a  gimlet  some- 
where! —  they  would  let  him  take  it  with  him; 
—  he  could  bore  a  tiny  little  hole  in  the  wall  so 
that  a  thread  of  sunlight  would  creep  into  his 
resting-place  every  day,  and  he  could  hear  the 
voices  of  the  world  about  him.  Yet  perhaps 
he  should  never  be  able  to  leave  that  dark 
187 


FANTASTICS 

damp  place  again!  —  It  was  very  possible; 
seeing  that  he  was  so  tired.  And  there  was  so 
much  to  be  arranged  first:  there  were  estimates 
and  plans  and  contracts;  and  nobody  else 
could  make  them  out;  and  everything  would  be 
left  in  such  confusion!  And  perhaps  he  might 
not  even  be  able  to  think  in  a  little  while;  all 
the  knowledge  he  had  stored  up  would  be  lost; 
nobody  could  think  much  or  say  much  after 
having  been  buried.  And  he  thought  again  of 
the  pill-boxes  —  one  hundred  and  sixty-two 
very  small  pill-boxes.  No;  there  were  exactly 
three  hundred  and  sixty-six!  Perhaps  that  was 
because  it  was  leap  year. 


Everything  must  be  arranged  at  once!  —  at 
once!  The  pill-boxes  would  do;  he  could 
breathe  his  thoughts  into  them  and  close  them 
tightly  —  recollections  of  estimates,  correc- 
tions of  plans,  directions  to  the  stair-builders, 
understanding  with  contractors,  orders  to  the 
lumber  dealers,  instructions  to  Texan  and 
Mississippi  agents,  answers  to  anxious  archi- 
tects, messages  to  the  senior  partner,  explana- 
188 


THE  ONE  PILL-BOX 

tions  to  the  firm  of  X  and  W.  Then  it  seemed 
to  him  that  each  little  box  received  its  deposit 
of  memories,  and  became  light  as  flame,  buoy- 
ant as  a  bubble;  —  rising  in  the  air  to  float 
halfway  between  floor  and  ceiling.  A  great 
anxiety  suddenly  came  upon  him;  —  the  win- 
dows were  all  open,  and  the  opening  of  the  door 
might  cause  a  current.  All  these  little  thoughts 
would  float  away!  —  yet  he  could  not  rise  to 
lock  the  door!  The  boxes  were  all  there,  float- 
ing above  him  light  as  motes  in  a  sunbeam:  — 
there  were  so  many  now  that  he  could  not 
count  them!  If  the  nurse  would  only  stay 
away!  .  .  .  Then  all  became  dark  again  —  a 
darkness  as  of  solid  ebony,  heavy,  crushing, 
black,  blank,  universal.  .  .  . 

All  lost!  Brutally  the  door  opened  and 
closed  again  with  a  cruel  clap  of  thunder.  .  .  . 
Yellow  lightnings  played  circling  before  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  The  pill-boxes  were  gone!  But  was 
not  that  the  face  of  the  doctor,  anxious  and 
kindly?  The  burning  day  was  dead;  the  sick 
man  turned  his  eyes  to  the  open  windows,  and 
beheld  the  fathomless  purple  of  the  night,  and 
the  milky  blossoms  of  the  stars.  And  he  strove 
to  speak,  but  could  not!  The  light  of  a  shaded 
189 


FANTASTICS 

lamp  falling  upon  the  table  illuminated  a  tiny 
object,  blood-scarlet  by  day,  carmine  under 
the  saffron  artificial  light.  There  was  only  one 
pill-box. 


A  RIVER  REVERIE1 

AN  old  Western  river  port,  lying  in  a  wrinkle 
of  the  hills,  —  a  sharp  slope  down  to  the  yel- 
low water,  glowing  under  the  sun  like  molten 
bronze,  —  a  broken  hollow  square  of  buildings 
framing  it  in,  whose  basements  had  been  made 
green  by  the  lipping  of  water  during  inunda- 
tions periodical  as  the  rising  of  the  Nile,  —  a 
cannonade-rumble  of  drays  over  the  boulders, 
and  muffled-drum  thumping  of  cotton  bales, 
—  white  signs  black-lettered  with  names  of 
steamboat  companies,  and  the  green  lattice- 
work of  saloon  doors  flanked  by  empty  kegs, 
— above,  church  spires  cutting  the  blue, — be- 
low, on  the  slope,  hogsheads,  bales,  drays,  cases, 
boxes,  barrels,  kegs,  mules,  wagons,  policemen, 
loungers,  and  roustabouts,  whose  apparel  is 
at  once  as  picturesque,  as  ragged,  and  as  color- 
less as  the  fronts  of  their  favorite  haunts  on  the 
water-front.  Westward  the  purple  of  softly- 
rolling  hills  beyond  the  flood,  through  a  di- 
aphanous veil  of  golden  haze,  —  a  marshaled 
array  of  white  boats  with  arabesque  lightness 
1  Times-Democrat,  May  2,  1882. 
191 


FANTASTICS 

of  painted  woodwork,  and  a  long  and  irregular 
line  of  smoking  chimneys.  The  scene  never 
varied  save  with  the  varying  tints  of  weather 
and  season.  Sometimes  the  hills  were  gray 
through  an  atmosphere  of  rain,  —  sometimes 
they  vanished  altogether  in  an  autumn  fog; 
but  the  port  never  changed.  And  in  summer  or 
spring,  at  the  foot  of  the  iron  stairway  leading 
up  to  a  steamboat  agency  in  the  great  middle 
building  facing  the  river,  there  was  a  folding 
stool  —  which  no  one  ever  tried  to  steal  — 
which  even  the  most  hardened  wharf  thieves 
respected,  —  and  on  that  stool,  at  the  same 
hour  every  day,  a  pleasant-faced  old  man  with 
a  very  long  white  beard  used  to  sit.  If  you 
asked  anybody  who  it  was,  the  invariable 

reply  was:  "Oh!  that's  old  Captain ;  used 

to  be  in  the  New  Orleans  trade;  —  had  to  give 
up  the  river  on  account  of  rheumatism;  — 
comes  down  every  day  to  look  at  things." 

Wonder  whether  the  old  captain  still  sits 
there  of  bright  afternoons,  to  watch  the  re- 
turning steamers  panting  with  their  mighty 
run  from  the  Far  South,— or  whether  he 
has  sailed  away  upon  that  other  river,  silent 
and  colorless  as  winter's  fog,  to  that  vast  and 
192 


A  RIVER  REVERIE 

shadowy  port  where  much  ghostly  freight  is 
discharged  from  vessels  that  never  return? 
He  haunts  us  sometimes,  —  even  as  he  must 
have  been  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  dead  years. 

When  some  great  white  boat  came  in,  utter- 
ing its  long,  wild  cry  of  joy  after  its  giant  race 
of  eighteen  hundred  miles,  to  be  reechoed  by 
the  hundred  voices  of  the  rolling  hills,  —  surely 
the  old  man  must  have  dreamed  upon  his 
folding  stool  of  marvelous  nights  upon  the 
Mississippi,  —  nights  filled  with  the  perfume 
of  orange  blossoms  under  a  milky  palpitation 
of  stars  in  amethystine  sky,  and  witchery  of 
tropical  moonlight. 

The  romance  of  river-life  is  not  like  the 
romance  of  the  sea,  —  that  romance  memory 
evokes  for  us  in  the  midst  of  the  city  by  the 
simple  exhalations  of  an  asphalt  pavement 
under  the  sun,  —  divine  saltiness,  celestial 
freshness,  the  wild  joy  of  wind-kissed  waves, 
the  hum  of  rigging  and  crackling  of  cordage, 
the  rocking  as  of  a  mighty  cradle.  But  it  is 
perhaps  sweeter.  There  is  no  perceptible  mo- 
tion of  the  river  vessel;  it  is  like  the  movement 
of  a  balloon,  so  steady  that  not  we  but  the 
world  only  seems  to  move.  Under  the  stars 
193 


FANTASTICS 

there  seems  to  unroll  its  endlessness  like  an 
immeasurable  ribbon  of  silver-purple.  There 
is  a  noiseless  ripple  in  it,  as  of  watered  silk. 
There  is  a  heavy,  sweet  smell  of  nature,  of 
luxuriant  verdure;  the  feminine  outlines  of  the 
hills,  dotted  with  the  chrome-yellow  of  window- 
lights,  are  blue-black;  the  vast  arch  of  stars 
blossoms  overhead;  there  is  no  sound  but  the 
colossal  breathing  of  the  laboring  engines;  the 
stream  widens;  the  banks  lessen;  the  heavens 
seem  to  grow  deeper,  the  stars  whiter,  the  blue 
bluer.  Under  the  night  it  is  all  a  blue  world, 
as  in  a  planet  illuminated  by  a  colored  sun. 
The  calls  of  the  passing  boats,  sonorous  as 
the  music  of  vast  silver  trumpets,  ring  out 
clear  but  echoless;  — there  are  no  hills  to  give 
ghostly  answer.  Days  are  born  in  gold  and  die 
in  rose-color;  and  the  stream  widens,  widens, 
broadens  toward  the  eternity  of  the  sea  under 
the  eternity  of  the  sky.  We  sail  out  of  Northern 
frosts  into  Southern  lukewarmness,  into  the 
luxuriant  and  somnolent  smell  of  magnolias 
and  lemon-blossoms,  —  the  sugar-country  ex- 
hales its  incense  of  welcome.  And  the  giant 
crescent  of  lights,  the  stream-song  of  joyous 
boats,  the  world  of  chimneys,  the  forests  of 
194 


A  RIVER  REVERIE 

spars,  the  burst  of  morning  glory  over  New 
Orleans,  viewed  from  the  deck  of  a  pilot- 
house. .  .  . 

These  may  never  be  wholly  forgotten;  after 
the  lapse  of  fifty  years  in  some  dusty  and  dreary 
inland  city,  an  odor,  an  echo,  a  printed  name 
may  resurrect  their  recollection,  fresh  as  one 
of  those  Gulf  winds  that  leave  sweet  odors 
after  them,  like  coquettish  women,  like  Tal- 
mudic  angels. 

So  that  we  beheld  all  these  things  yesterday 
and  heard  all  these  dead  voices  once  more; 
saw  the  old  Western  port  with  its  water-be- 
slimed  warehouses,  and  the  Kentucky  hills 
beyond  the  river,  and  the  old  captain  on  his 
folding  stool,  gazing  wistfully  at  the  boats; 
so  that  we  heard  once  more  the  steam  whistles 
of  vessels  that  have  long  ceased  to  be,  or  that, 
changed  into  floating  wharves,  rise  and  fall 
with  the  flood,  like  corpses. 

And  all  because  there  came  an  illustrious 
visitor  to  us,  who  reminded  us  of  all  these 
things;  having  once  himself  turned  the  pilot's 
wheel,  through  weird  starlight  or  magical 
moonshine,  gray  rain  or  ghostly  fog,  golden 
sun  or  purple  light,  —  down  the  great  river 


FANTASTICS 

from  Northern  frosts  to  tepid  Southern  winds, 
—  and  up  the  mighty  stream  into  the  misty 
North  again. 

To-day  his  name  is  a  household  word  in  the 
English-speaking  world;  his  thoughts  have 
been  translated  into  other  tongues;  his  written 
wit  creates  mirth  at  once  in  Paris  salons  and 
in  New  Zealand  homes.  Fortune  has  also  ex- 
tended to  him  her  stairway  of  gold;  and  he 
has  hobnobbed  much  with  the  great  ones  of 
the  world.  But  there  is  still  something  of  the 
pilot's  cheery  manner  in  his  greeting,  and  the 
keenness  of  the  pilot's  glance  in  his  eyes,  and  a 
looking  out  and  afar  off,  as  of  the  man  who  of 
old  was  wont  to  peer  into  the  darkness  of  star- 
less nights,  with  the  care  of  a  hundred  lives 
on  his  hands. 

He  has  seen  many  strange  cities  since  that 
day, —  sailed  upon  many  seas,  —  studied  many 
peoples,  —  written  many  wonderful  books. 

Yet,  now  that  he  is  in  New  Orleans  again, 
one  cannot  help  wondering  whether  his  heart 
does  not  sometimes  prompt  him  to  go  to  the 
river,  like  that  old  captain  of  the  far  North- 
western port,  to  watch  the  white  boats  panting 
at  the  wharves,  and  listen  to  their  cries  of  wel- 
196 


A  RIVER  REVERIE 

come  or  farewell,  and  dream  of  nights  beauti- 
ful, silver-blue,  and  silent,  —  and  the  great 
Southern  moon  peering  into  a  pilot-house. 


"HIS  HEART  IS  OLD"1 

ChrystoUepharos  —  Elikoblepharos,  —  eyelids 
grace-kissed,  —  the  eyes  of  Leucothea, —  the 
dreaming  marble  head  of  the  Capitoline  Mu- 
seum, —  the  face  of  the  girl-nurse  of  the  wine- 
god,  with  a  spray  of  wine-leaves  filleting  her 
sweet  hair,  —  that  inexpressible,  inexplicable, 
petrified  dream  of  loveliness,  which  well  en- 
ables us  to  comprehend  old  monkish  tales 
regarding  the  infernal  powers  of  enchantment 
possessed  by  the  antique  statues  of  those  gods 
who  Tertullian  affirmed  were  demons.  For  in 
howsoever  thoughtless  a  mood  one  may  be 
when  he  first  visits  the  archaeological  shrine  in 
which  the  holiness  of  antique  beauty  reposes, 
the  first  glorious  view  of  such  a  marble  miracle 
compels  the  heart  to  slacken  its  motion  in  the 
awful  wonder  of  that  moment.  One  breathes 
low,  as  in  sacred  fear  lest  the  vision  might  dis- 
solve into  nothingness  —  as  though  the  witch- 
ery might  be  broken  were  living  breath  to 
touch  with  its  warm  moisture  that  wonderful 
marble  cheek.  Vainly  may  you  strive  to  solve 
1  Times-Democrat,  May  7,  1882. 
198 


HIS  HEART  IS  OLD 

the  secret  of  this  magical  art;  the  exquisite 
mystery  is  divine  —  human  eye  may  never 
pierce  it;  one  dare  not  laugh,  dare  not  speak 
in  its  presence  —  that  beauty  imposes  silence 
by  its  very  sweetness;  one  may  pray  voice- 
lessly,  one  does  not  smile  in  presence  of  the 
Superhuman.  And  when  hours  of  mute  mar- 
veling have  passed,  the  wonder  seems  even 
newer  than  before.  Shall  we  wonder  that  early 
Christian  zealots  should  have  dashed  these 
miracles  to  pieces,  maddened  by  the  silent 
glamour  of  beauty  that  defied  analysis  and 
seemed,  indeed,  a  creation  of  the  Master-Magi- 
cian himself? 

And  the  Centauress,  in  cameo,  kneeling  to 
suckle  her  little  one;  —  the  supple  nudity  of 
exquisite  epliebi  turning  in  eternal  dance  about 
the  circumference  of  wondrous  vases;  —  gentle 
Psyche,  butterfly-winged,  weeping  on  a  graven 
carnelian;  —  river-deities  in  relief  eternally 
watching  the  noiseless  flow  of  marble  waves 
from  urns  that  gurgle  not;  —  joyous  Tritons 
with  knotty  backs  and  seaweed  twined  among 
their  locks;  —  luxurious  symposia  in  sculpture, 
such  as  might  have  well  suggested  the  Oriental 
fancy  of  petrified  cities,  with  their  innumerable 
199 


FANTASTICS 

pleasure-seekers  suddenly  turned  to  stone;  — 
splendid  processions  of  maidens  to  the  shrine 
of  the  Maiden-Goddess,  and  Bacchantes  lead- 
ing tame  panthers  in  the  escort  of  the  Rosy 
God:  all  these  and  countless  other  visions  of 
the  dead  Greek  world  still  haunted  me,  as  I 
laid  aside  the  beautiful  and  quaint  volume  of 
archaeological  learning  that  inspired  them  — 
bound  in  old  fashion,  and  bearing  the  imprint 
of  a  firm  that  had  ceased  to  exist  ere  the  close 
of  the  French  Revolution,  —  a  Rococo  Win- 
kelmann.  And  still  they  circled  about  me, 
with  the  last  smoke-wreaths  of  the  last  even- 
ing pipe,  on  the  moonlight  balcony,  among 
the  shadows. 


Then  as  I  dreamed  the  beautful  dead  world 
seemed  to  live  again,  in  a  luminous  haze,  in 
an  Elysian  glow.  The  processions  of  stone 
awoke  from  their  sleep  of  two  thousand  years, 
and  moved  and  chanted;  —  marble  dreams 
became  lithe  flesh;  —  the  phantom  Arcadia 
was  peopled  with  shapes  of  unclad  beauty;  — 
I  saw  eyelids  as  of  Leucothea  palpitating  under 
the  kisses  of  the  Charities,  —  the  incarnate 
200 


HIS  HEART  IS  OLD 

loveliness  superhuman  of  a  thousand  godlike 
beings,  known  to  us  only  by  their  shadows  in 
stone;  —  and  the  efflorescent  youth  of  that 
vanished  nation,  whose  idols  were  Beauty  and 
Joy,  —  who  laughed  much  and  never  wept,  — 
whose  perfect  faces  were  never  clouded  by  the 
shadow  of  a  grief,  nor  furrowed  by  the  agony  of 
thought,  nor  wrinkled  by  the  bitterness  of  tears. 

I  found  myself  in  the  honeyed  heart  of  that 
world,  where  all  was  youth  and  joy,  —  where 
the  very  air  seemed  to  thrill  with  new  happi- 
ness in  a  paradise  newly  created,  —  where 
innumerable  flowers,  of  genera  unknown  in 
these  later  years,  filled  the  valley  with  amorous 
odor  of  spring.  But  I  sat  among  them  with 
the  thoughts  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  and 
the  heart  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  and  the 
garb  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  which  is  black 
as  a  garb  of  mourning  for  the  dead.  And  they 
drew  about  me,  seeing  that  I  laughed  not  at 
all,  nor  smiled,  nor  spoke;  and  low-whispering 
to  one  another,  they  murmured  with  a  silky 
murmur  as  of  summer  winds:  — 

"His  heart  is  old!" 


FANTASTICS 

And  I  pondered  the  words  of  the  Ecclesiast: 
"Sorrow  is  better  than  laughter;  for  by  the 
sadness  of  the  countenance  the  heart  is  made 
better.  ...  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of 
mourning  than  to  the  house  of  feasting;  and 
the  day  of  one's  death  is  better  than  the  day 
of  one's  birth."  But  I  answered  nothing;  and 
they  spake  again,  whispering,  "His  heart  is 
old!"  And  one  with  sweet  and  silky-lidded 
eyes,  lifted  her  voice  and  spake:  — 

"  O  thou  dreamer,  wherefore  evoke  us,  where- 
fore mourn  us,  —  seeing  that  there  is  no  more 
joy  in  the  world? 

"Ours  was  a  world  of  light  and  of  laughter 
and  of  flowers,  of  loveliness  and  of  love.  Thine 
is  smoke-darkened  and  sombre;  there  is  no 
beauty  unveiled;  and  men  have  forgotten  how 
to  laugh. 

"Ye  have  increased  wisdom  unto  sorrow, 
and  sorrow  unto  infinite  despair;  —  for  there 
is  now  no  Elysium,  —  the  vault  of  heaven  has 
sunk  back  into  immensity,  and  dissolved  itself 
into  nothingness;  the  boundaries  of  earth  are 
set,  and  the  earth  itself  resolved  into  a  grain 
of  dust,  whirling  in  the  vast  white  ring  of  in- 
numerable suns  and  countless  revolving  worlds. 
202 


HIS  HEART  IS  OLD 

Yet  we  were  happier,  believing  the  blossoming 
of  stars  to  be  only  drops  of  milk  from  the  per- 
fect breast  of  a  goddess. 

"  Nymphs  haunted  our  springs;  dryads  slum- 
bered in  the  waving  shadows  of  our  trees; 
zephyrs  ethereal  rode  upon  our  summer  winds; 
and  great  Pan  played  upon  his  pipe  in  the 
emerald  gloom  of  our  summer  woods.  Ye  men 
of  to-day  have  analyzed  all  substances,  de- 
composed all  elements,  to  discover  the  Undis- 
coverable,  and  ye  have  found  it  not.  But  in 
searching  for  the  unsearchable,  ye  have  lost 
joy. 

"  We  loved  the  beauty  of  youth,  —  the  lithe- 
ness  of  young  limbs,  —  the  rosy  dawn  of 
maturity,  —  the  bloom  of  downy  cheeks, — 
the  sweetness  of  eyes  sweetened  by  vague  de- 
sires of  life's  spring,  —  the  marvelous  thrill  of 
a  first  kiss,  —  the  hunger  of  love  which  had 
only  to  announce  itself  to  be  appeased, — 
and  the  glory  of  strength.  But  ye  have  sought 
the  secret  of  the  Universal  life  in  charnel- 
houses,  —  dismembering  rottenness  itself  and 
prying  open  the  jaws  of  Death  to  view  the 
awful  emptiness  therein.  Learning  only  enough 
to  appal  you,  ye  have  found  that  science  can 
203 


FANTASTICS 

teach  you  less  of  beauty  than  our  forgotten 
gymnasiums;  but  in  the  mean  time,  ye  have 
forgotten  how  to  love. 

"We  gave  to  the  bodies  of  our  well-beloved 
the  holy  purification  of  fire;  ye  confide  them  to 
the  flesh-eating  earth,  filling  your  cities  with 
skeletons.  For  us  Death  was  bodiless  and  ter- 
rible; for  you  she  is  visible  and  yet  welcome; 
—  for  so  weary  have  men  become  of  life  that 
her  blackness  seems  to  them  beauty,  —  the 
beauty  of  a  mistress,  the  universal  Pasiphila, 
who  alone  can  give  consolation  to  hearts  weary 
of  life.  So  that  ye  have  even  forgotten  how  to 
die! 

"And  thou,  O  dreamer,  thou  knowest  that 
there  was  no  beginning  and  that  there  shall  be 
no  end;  but  thou  dost  also  know  that  the  dust 
beneath  thy  feet  has  lived  and  loved,  that  all 
which  now  lives  once  lived  not,  and  that  what 
is  now  lifeless  will  live  again;  —  thou  knowest 
that  the  substance  of  the  sweetest  lips  has 
passed  through  myriad  million  transforma- 
tions, that  the  light  of  the  sweetest  eyes  will 
still  pass  through  innumerable  changes  after  the 
fires  of  the  stars  have  burnt  themselves  out. 
In  seeking  the  All-Soul,  thou  hast  found  it 
204 


HIS  HEART  IS  OLD 

in  thyself,  and  hast  elevated  thyself  to  deity, 
yet  for  thee  are  vows  vain  and  oracles  dumb. 
Hope  is  extinguished  in  everlasting  night; 
thou  mayst  not  claim  even  the  consolation  of 
prayer,  for  thou  canst  not  pray  to  thyself. 
Like  the  Mephistopheles  of  thy  poet,  O  dreamer 
of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  thou  mayst  sit 
between  the  Sphinx  of  the  Past  and  the  Sphinx 
of  the  Future,  and  question  them,  and  open 
their  lips  of  granite,  and  answer  their  mocking 
riddles.  But  thou  mayst  not  forget  how  to 
weep,  even  though  thy  heart  grow  old."  .  .  . 

But  I  could  not  weep!  —  And  the  phantoms, 
marveling,  murmured  with  a  strange  murmur, 
—  "The  heart  of  Medusa!" 


MDCCCLm1 

I  knew  was  there, — a  woman.... 
Heat,  motionless  ai*l  ponderous,  as  in  some 

'.  - '  '  •'.  ' '.  r .".    ."     .'.'.".'."...   --".'•    -  -~'-~~.2  '.''..'.  '..'.-:  Y r .__"_/._"  U5 

swamps  of  the  Ivory  Coast.  The  sky-blue 
seemed  to  bleach  from  the  horizon's  furnace 
edges, — cvmauuuds  were  muffled  and  blunted 
by  the  heaviness  of  that  air,  —  vaguely,  as  to 
a  dozing  brain,  came  the  passing  reverberation 
of  footsteps;— the  river- 
and  thick  and  lazy,  like  wax- 
Soch  were  the  days, — mod  each  day  offered  op 
a  triple  hecatomb  to  death,  —  and  the  faces 
of  aD  the  dead  were  ydlo was  flame.. .. 

Never  a  drop  of  rain:  — the  thin  douds 
which  made  thumdvtj.  visibk  of  eveuiig&only, 
flocking  about  the  dying  fires  of  the  west, 
seemed  to  dwellers  in  the  city  troops  of  ghosts 
departing  with  the  day,  as  in  the  hnlOTlic 
myths  of  the  South  Pacific. 

—  I  passed  the  outer  iron  gate,  —  the 

warm  sea-shells  hUiwiiig  die  way  brake  under 

my  feet  with  faint  saline  odors  in  the  hot  air: 

1  r««»-.DiaMar*t,  May  21,1882.  Beam's  ovn  tide. 

206 


MDCCCLm 

—  I  heard  the  iron  tongue  of  a  bell  utter 
with  the  sinister  vibration  of  a  knefl,  —  sig- 
naling the  eternal  extinction  of  a  fife.  Seven 
and  seventy  tones  that  iron  tongue  had  ut- 
tered its  grim  monosyllable  since  the  last  set- 
ting of  the  sun.  The  grizzled  ••*•*•  f  of  thg 
iinwf  FJ**^  extended  his  irritfd  pahn  far  that 
flff  iiin«.y  im  •  contributkxi  ^^rt^H  from  all 
visitors;  —  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  beheld 
the  gray  Ferryman  of  Shadows  himself,  si- 
lently awaiting  his  obofas  from  me,  also  a 
Shadow.  And  as  I  glided  into  the  world  of 
ag<Hiy  beyond,  the  dead-bell  moved  its  iron 
tongue  again  —  once.  — 

Vast  bare  gleaming  corridors  into  which 
mauy  doors  exhaled  odors  of  medicines  and 
moans  and  sound  of  tight  footsteps  hurrying  — 
then  I  stood  a  moment  all  alone  —  a  long 
fngmfnt  that  I  repass  sometimes  in  dreams. 
(Only  that  in  dreams  of  the  past  there  are  no 
Bounds — the  dead  are  dumb;  and  the  fondest 
may  not  retain  the  evanescent  memory  of  a 
voice.)  Then  suddenly  approached  a  swift 
step  — so  light,  so  light  that  it  seemed  the 
coming  of  a  ghost;  and  I  saw  a  slight  figure 
black-robed  from  neck  to  feet,  the  fantasti- 


FANTASTICS 

cally  winged  cap  of  a  Sister,  and  beneath  the 
white  cap  a  dark  and  beautiful  face  with  very 
black  eyes.  Even  then  the  iron  bell  spake 
again  —  once!  I  muttered  —  nay,  I  whis- 
pered, all  fearful  with  the  fearfulness  of  that 
place,  the  name  of  a  ward  and  —  the  name  of 
a  Woman. 

"Friend,  friend!  what  do  you  want  here?" 
murmured  the  Sister,  who  saw  that  the  visitor 
was  a  stranger.  Hers  was  the  first  voice  I  had 
heard  in  that  place  of  death,  and  it  seemed 
so  sweet  and  clear,  —  a  musical  vibration  of 
youth  and  hope!  And  I  answered,  this  time 
audibly.  "You  are  not  afraid?"  she  asked.  — 
"Come!" 

Taking  my  hand,  she  led  me  thither  — 
through  spaces  of  sunlight  and  shadow,  through 
broad  and  narrow  ways,  and  between  rows  of 
beds  white  like  rows  of  tombs.  Her  hand  was 
cool  and  light  as  mist,  —  as  frost,  —  as  the 
guiding  touch  of  that  spirit  might  be  whom  the 
faithful  of  many  creeds  believe  to  lead  their 
dead  out  of  the  darkness,  into  some  vast  new 
dawning  beyond.  .  .  .  "You  are  not  afraid?  — 
not  afraid?  "  the  sweet  voice  asked  again.  And 
I  suddenly  became  aware  of  the  dead,  lying 
208 


MDCCCLIII 

between  us,  and  the  death-color  in  her  face, 
like  a  flare  of  sunset.  .  .  . 

Then  for  an  instant  everything  became  dark 
between  me  and  the  Sister  standing  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  dead  —  and  I  was  groping 
in  that  darkness  blindly,  until  I  felt  a  cool  hand 
grasp  mine,  leading  me  silently  somewhere  — 
somewhere  into  the  light.  "Come!  you  have 
no  claim  here,  friend!  you  cannot  take  her 
back  from  God!  —  let  us  leave  her  with  Him! " 
And  I  obeyed  all  voicelessly.  I  felt  her  light, 
cool  hand  leading  me  again  between  the  long 
ranks  of  white  beds,  and  through  the  vast, 
bare  corridors,  and  the  shining  lobbies,  and  by 
the  doors  of  a  hundred  chambers  of  death. 

Then  at  the  summit  of  the  great  stairway, 
she  turned  her  rich  gaze  into  my  eyes  with  a 
strange,  sweet,  silent  sympathy,  pressed  my 
hand  an  instant,  and  was  gone.  I  heard  the 
whisper  of  her  departing  robe;  I  saw  the  noise- 
less fluttering  of  her  white  cap;  —  a  great  door 
opened  very  silently,  closed  inaudibly;  and  I 
was  all  alone.  —  (Some  one  told  me,  only  a 
few  days  later,  that  the  iron  bell  had  also  spo- 
ken for  her,  the  little  Sister  of  Charity,  —  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  —  once!) 
209 


FANTASTICS 

And  I,  standing  alone  upon  the  stairs,  felt 
something  unutterably  strange  within  me  — 
the  influence  of  that  last  look,  perhaps  still 
vibrating,  like  an  expiring  sunbeam,  a  dying 
tone.  Something  in  her  eyes  had  rekindled  into 
life  something  long  burned  out  within  my 
heart  —  the  ashes  of  a  Faith  entombed  as  in  a 
sepulchral  urn.  .  . .  Yet  only  a  moment;  and 
the  phantom  flame  sank  back  into  its  ashes; 
and  I  was  in  the  sunlight  again,  iron  of  pur- 
pose as  Pharaoh  after  the  death  of  his  first- 
born. It  was  only  a  dead  emotion,  warmed  to 
resurrection  by  the  sunshine  of  a  woman's  eyes. 

.  .  .  Nevertheless,  I  fancy  that  when  the 
Ringer  is  preparing  to  ring  for  me,  —  and  the 
great  darkness  deepens  all  about  me,  —  when 
sounds  sink  to  their  whispers  and  questions 
must  remain  eternally  unanswered,  —  when 
memory  is  fading  out  into  the  infinite  black- 
ness, and  those  strange  dreams  that  precurse 
the  final  dissolution  marshal  their  illusions 
before  me,  —  I  fancy  that  I  might  hear  again 
the  whisper  of  a  black  robe,  and  feel  a  hand, 
light  as  frost,  held  out  to  me  with  the  sweet 
questioning  —  "Come!  You  are  not  afraid?" 


HIOUEN-THSANG « 

The  story  of  him  who  gave  the  Lotus  of  the  good 
Law  unto  four  hundred  millions  of  his  people 
in  the  Middle  Kingdom,  and  remained  insen- 
sible unto  honors  even  as  the  rose-leaf  to  the  dew- 
drop.  .  .  . 

Twelve  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  town  of 
China,  situated  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the 
kingdom  called  Celestial,  was  born  a  boy,  at 
whose  advent  in  this  world  of  illusions  the 
spirits  of  good  rejoiced,  and  marvelous  things 
also  happened  —  according  to  the  legends  of 
those  years.  For  before  his  birth,  the  mother 
dreaming  beheld  the  Shadow  of  Buddha  above 
her,  radiant  as  the  face  of  the  Mountain  of 
Light;  and  after  the  Shadow  had  passed,  she 
was  aware  of  the  figure  of  her  son,  that  was  to 
be,  following  after  It  over  vast  distances  to 
cities  of  an  architecture  unknown,  and  through 
forests  of  strange  growth  that  seemed  not  of 
this  world.  And  a  Voice  gave  her  to  know  that 
her  boy  would  yet  travel  in  search  of  the  Word 
through  unknown  lands,  and  be  guided  by  Lord 
1  Times-Democrat,  June  25, 1882.  Hearn's  own  title. 
211 


FANTASTICS 

Buddha  in  his  wanderings,  and  find  in  the  end 
that  which  he  sought.  .  .  . 

So  the  boy  grew  up  in  wisdom;  and  his  face 
became  as  the  white  face  of  the  God  in  the 
Temple  beyond  Tientsin,  where  the  mirage 
shifts  its  spectral  beauties  forever  above  the 
sands,  typifying  to  the  faithful  that  the  world 
and  all  within  it  are  but  a  phantasmagoria  of 
illusion.  And  the  boy  was  instructed  by  the 
priests  of  Buddha,  and  became  wiser  than  they. 

For  the  Law  of  Buddha  had  blossomed  in 
the  land  unnumbered  years,  and  the  Son  of 
Heaven  had  bowed  down  before  it,  and  there 
were  in  the  Empire  many  thousand  convents 
of  holy  monks,  and  countless  teachers  of  truth. 
But  in  the  lapse  of  a  thousand  years  and  more 
the  Lotus  Flower  of  the  Good  Law  had  lost  its 
perfume;  much  of  the  wisdom  of  the  World- 
honored  had  been  forgotten;  fire  and  the  fury 
of  persecution  had  made  small  the  number  of 
holy  books.  When  Hiouen-thsang  sought  for 
the  deeper  wisdom  of  the  Law  he  found  it  not; 
nor  was  there  in  all  China  one  who  could  inform 
him.  Then  a  great  longing  came  upon  him  to 
go  to  India,  the  land  of  the  Savior  of  Man,  and 
there  seek  the  wondrous  words  that  had  been 
212 


HIOUEN-THSANG 

lost,  and  the  marvelous  books  unread  by  Chi- 
nese eyes. 

*        * 

Before  the  time  of  Hiouen-thsang  other 
Chinese  pilgrims  had  visited  the  Indian  Pales- 
tine; —  Fabian  had  been  sent  thither  upon  a 
pilgrimage  by  a  holy  Empress.  But  these 
others  had  received  aid  of  money  and  of 
servants,  —  letters  to  governors  and  gifts  to 
kings.  Hiouen-thsang  had  neither  money  nor 
servants,  nor  any  knowledge  of  the  way.  There- 
fore he  could  only  seek  aid  from  the  Emperor, 
and  permission.  But  the  Son  of  Heaven  re- 
jected the  petition  written  upon  yellow  silk, 
and  signed  with  two  thousand  devout  names. 
Moreover,  he  forbade  Hiouen-thsang  to  leave 
the  kingdom  under  penalty  of  death. 

But  the  heart  of  Hiouen-thsang  told  him 
that  he  must  go.  And  he  remembered  that  the 
caravans  from  India  used  to  bring  their  strange 
wares  to  a  city  on  the  Hoang-ho  —  on  the  Yel- 
low River.  Secretly  departing  in  the  night,  he 
traveled  for  many  days,  succored  upon  his  way 
by  the  brethren,  until  he  came  to  the  caravan- 
sary, and  saw  the  Indian  merchants  with  their 


FANTASTICS 

multitude  of  horses  and  of  camels,  resting  be- 
side the  Hoang-ho. 

And  presently  when  they  departed  for  the 
frontier,  he  followed  secretly  after  them,  with 
two  Buddhist  friends. 


So  they  came  to  the  frontier,  where  the  line 
of  the  fortifications  stretched  away  lessening 
into  the  desert,  with  their  watch-towers  fan- 
tastically capped,  like  Mandarins.  But  here 
only  the  caravan  could  pass;  for  the  guards 
had  orders  from  the  Son  of  Heaven  to  seize 
upon  Hiouen-thsang;  —  and  the  Indian  mer- 
chants rode  away  far  beyond  the  line  of  the 
watch-towers;  and  the  caravan  became  only  a 
moving  speck  against  the  disk  of  the  sun,  to 
disappear  with  his  setting.  Yet  in  the  night 
Hiouen-thsang  passed  with  his  friends,  like 
shadows,  through  the  line  of  guards,  and  fol- 
lowed the  trail. 

Happily  the  captain  in  charge  of  the  next 

watch-tower  was  a  holy  man,  and  moved  by 

the  supplications  of  the  Buddhist  priests,  he 

permitted  Hiouen-thsang  to  pass  on.  But  the 

214 


fflOUEN-THSANG 

other  brethren  trembled  and  returned,  leav- 
ing Hiouen-thsang  alone.  Yet  India  was  still 
more  than  a  thousand  miles  distant,  by  the 
way  of  the  caravans. 

Only  the  men  of  the  last  watch-tower  would 
not  allow  Hiouen-thsang  to  pass;  but  he  es- 
caped by  them  into  the  desert.  Then  he  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  the  caravan,  the  prints  of  the 
feet  of  camels  and  horses  leading  toward  In- 
dia. Skeletons  were  whitening  in  the  sands; 
the  eyeless  sockets  of  innumerable  skulls  looked 
at  him.  The  sun  set  and  rose  again  many 
times;  the  sand-sea  moved  its  waves  contin- 
ually with  a  rustling  sound;  the  multitude  of 
white  bones  waxed  vaster.  And  as  Hiouen- 
thsang  proceeded  phantom  cities  mocked  him 
on  the  right  hand  and  upon  the  left,  and  the 
spectral  caravans  wrought  by  the  mirage  rode 
by  him  shadowlessly.  Then  his  water-skin 
burst,  and  the  desert  drank  up  its  contents; 
the  hoof-prints  disappeared.  Hiouen-thsang 
had  lost  his  way.  .  .  . 


* 
*        * 


From  the  past  of  twelve  hundred  years  ago, 
we  can  hear  the  breaking  of  that  water-skin; 
215 


FANTASTICS 

—  we  can  feel  the  voiceless  despair  that  for  a 
moment  chilled  the  heart  and  faith  of  Hiouen- 
thsang,  —  alone  in  the  desert  of  skeletons, — 
alone  in  the  infinite  platitude  of  sand  broken 
only  by  the  mockeries  of  the  mirage.  But  the 
might  of  faith  helped  him  on;  prayers  were  his 
food,  Buddha  the  star-compass  that  illumi- 
nated the  path  to  India.  For  five  days  and 
five  nights  he  traveled  without  meat  or  drink 
under  blistering  suns,  under  the  vast  throb- 
bing of  stars,  —  and  at  last  the  sharp  yellow 
line  of  the  horizon  became  green! 

It  was  not  the  mirage,  —  it  was  a  land  of 
steel-bright  lakes  and  long  grass,  —  the  land 
of  the  men  who  live  upon  horseback,  —  the 
country  of  the  Oigour  Tartars. 


The  Khan  received  the  pilgrim  as  a  son; 
honors  were  showered  upon  him,  —  for  the 
fame  of  Hiouen-thsang  as  a  teacher  of  the  Law 
had  reached  into  the  heart  of  Asia.  And  they 
desired  that  he  should  remain  with  them,  to 
instruct  them  in  the  knowledge  of  Buddha. 
When  he  would  not,  —  only  after  having  vainly 
216 


HIOUEN-THSANG 

essayed  upon  him  such  temptation  and  coer- 
cion by  turns  that  he  was  driven  to  despair, 
the  Khan  at  last  permitted  him  to  depart  under 
oath  that  he  would  return.  But  India  was  still 
far  away.  Hiouen-thsang  had  to  pass  through 
the  territories  of  twenty-four  great  kings  ere 
reaching  the  Himalayas.  The  Khan  gave  him 
an  escort  and  letters  to  the  rulers  of  all  king- 
doms, for  his  memory  is  yet  blessed  in  the 
Empire  Celestial. 

It  was  in  the  seventh  century.  Rivers  have 
changed  their  courses  since  then.  Hiouen- 
thsang  visited  the  rulers  of  kingdoms  that 
have  utterly  disappeared;  he  beheld  civiliza- 
tions where  are  now  wastes  of  sand;  he  con- 
versed with  masters  of  a  learning  that  has 
vanished  without  leaving  a  trace  behind.  The 
face  of  the  world  is  changed;  but  the  words  of 
Hiouen-thsang  change  not;  —  lakes  have  dried 
up,  yet  we  even  now  in  this  Western  republic 
drink  betimes  from  that  Fountain  of  Gold 
which  Hiouen-thsang  set  flowing  —  to  flow 
forever! 

So  they  beheld  at  last,  afar  off,  the  awful 
Himalayas,  whose  white  turbans  touch  the 
heaven  of  India,  vested  with  thunder-clouds, 
217 


FANTASTICS 

belted  with  lightnings!  And  Hiouen-thsang 
passed  through  gorges  overhung  by  the  droop- 
ing fangs  of  monsters  of  ice  —  through  ravines 
so  dark  that  the  traveler  beholds  the  stars 
above  him  at  noonday,  and  eagles  like  dots 
against  the  sky  —  and  hard  by  the  icy  cavern 
whence  the  sacred  river  leaps  in  roaring  birth 
—  and  by  winding  ways  to  valleys  eternally 
green  —  and  ever  thus  into  the  glowing  para- 
dise of  Hindustan.  But  of  those  that  followed 
Hiouen-thsang,  thirteen  were  buried  in  the 
eternal  snow. 

He  saw  the  wondrous  cities  of  India;  he 
saw  the  sanctuaries  of  Benares;  saw  the  great 
temples  since  destroyed  for  modern  eyes  by 
Moslem  conquerors;  saw  the  idols  that  had 
diamond  eyes  and  bellies  filled  with  food  of 
emeralds  and  carbuncles;  he  trod  where  Buddha 
had  walked;  he  came  to  Maghada,  which  is  the 
Holy  Land  of  India.  Alone  and  on  foot  he 
traversed  the  jungles;  the  cobra  hissed  under 
his  feet,  the  tiger  glared  at  him  with  eyes  that 
flamed  like  emeralds,  the  wild  elephant's  moun- 
tain-shadow fell  across  his  path.  Yet  he  feared 
nothing,  for  he  sought  Buddha.  The  Phansi- 
gars  flung  about  his  neck  the  noose  of  the 
218 


HIOUEN-THSANG 

strangler,  and  yet  loosened  him  on  beholding 
the  holiness  of  his  face;  swarthy  robbers,  whose 
mustaches  were  curved  like  scimitars,  lifted 
their  blades  to  smite,  and  beholding  his  eyes 
turned  away.  So  he  came  to  the  Dragon- 
Cavern  of  Purushapura  to  seek  Buddha.  For 
Buddha,  though  having  entered  Nirvana  a 
thousand  years,  sometimes  there  made  himself 
visible  as  a  luminous  Shadow  to  those  who 
loved  him. 


* 
*        * 


But  in  the  cavern  was  a  darkness  as  of  the 
grave,  a  silence  as  of  death;  Hiouen-thsang 
prayed  in  vain,  and  vainly  wept  for  many 
hours  in  the  darkness.  At  last  there  came  a 
faint  glow  upon  the  wall,  like  a  beam  of  the 
moon  —  and  passed  away.  Then  Hiouen- 
thsang  prayed  yet  more  fervently  than  before; 
and  again  in  the  darkness  came  a  light  —  but  a 
fierce  brightness  as  of  lightning,  as  quickly 
passing  away.  Yet  a  third  time  Hiouen-thsang 
wept  and  prayed;  and  a  white  glory  filled  all 
the  black  cavern  —  and  brighter  than  the  sun 
against  that  glory  appeared  the  figure  and  face 
of  Buddha,  holier  of  beauty  than  all  concep- 
219 


FANTASTICS 

tions  of  man.  So  that  Hiouen-thsang  wor- 
shiped with  his  face  to  the  earth.  And  Buddha 
smiled  upon  him,  making  the  heart  of  the  pil- 
grim full  of  sunshine  —  but  the  Divine  spoke 
not,  inasmuch  as  he  had  entered  into  Nirvana 
a  thousand  years. 


After  this  Hiouen-thsang  passed  sixteen 
years  in  the  holy  places,  copying  the  Law,  and 
seeking  the  words  of  Buddha  in  books  that  had 
been  written  in  languages  no  longer  spoken. 
Of  these  he  obtained  one  thousand  three  hun- 
dred and  thirty-five  volumes.  Other  volumes 
there  were  in  the  Island  of  Elephants  far  to  the 
South  —  in  sultry  Ceylon;  but  thither  it  was 
not  permitted  him  to  go. 

He  was  a  youth  when  he  fled  from  China 
into  the  desert;  he  was  a  gray  man  when  he 
returned.  The  Emperor  that  had  forbade  his 
going  now  welcomed  his  return,  with  proces- 
sions of  tremendous  splendor,  in  which  were 
borne  the  Golden  Dragon  and  numberless 
statues  in  gold.  But  Hiouen-thsang  withdrew 
from  all  honors  into  a  monastery  in  the  moun- 
tains, desiring  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  only 
220 


HIOUEN-THSANG 

in  translating  the  word  of  Buddha  contained 
in  those  many  hundred  books  which  he  had 
found.  And  of  these  before  his  death  he 
translated  seven  hundred  and  forty  into  one 
thousand  three  hundred  and  thirty-five  vol- 
umes, as  the  books  of  the  Chinese  are  made. 
Having  completed  his  task,  he  passed  away  in 
the  midst  of  great  sorrow;  —  the  Empire  wept 
for  him  —  four  hundred  millions  mourned  for 
him. 


Did  he  see  the  Shadow  of  Buddha  smile 
upon  him  before  he  passed  away,  as  he  saw 
it  in  the  Dragon-Cavern  at  Purushapura?  .  .  . 
It  is  said  that  five  others  with  him  also  beheld 
that  luminous  presence  in  the  cave.  Yet  we 
may  well  believe  that  he  only  saw  it  —  faith- 
created;  for  Buddha  having  passed  into  Nir- 
vana may  be  sought  only  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  seen  only  by  the  eyes  of  faith! 

Twelve  hundred  years  ago  Hiouen-thsang 
devoted  his  life  to  the  pursuit  of  that  he  be- 
lieved to  be  Truth,  —  abandoned  all  things  for 
what  he  held  to  be  Duty,  —  encountered  such 
hardships  as  perhaps  no  other  man  ever  en- 
221 


FANTASTICS 

countered  in  the  search  for  Wisdom.  To-day 
nations  that  were  unborn  in  his  years  are  reap- 
ing the  fruits  of  his  grand  sacrifice  of  self.  His 
travels  have  been  recently  translated  into  the 
French  tongue;  his  own  translations  are  aiding 
the  philologists  of  the  nineteenth  century  to 
solve  historical  and  ethnical  problems;  Max 
Muller  lectures  *  upon  his  wonderful  mission 
to  India  in  the  seventh  century;  and  stories 
from  the  books  he  brought  back  from  Maghada 
are  in  the  hands  of  American  readers.  Who 
shall  say  that  there  is  no  goodness  without 
the  circle  of  Christianity!  —  who  declare  that 
heroism  and  unselfishness,  and  truth,  and  pur- 
est faith  may  not  exist  save  within  the  small 
sphere  of  what  we  fancy  the  highest  ethical 
civilization!  The  pilgrims  to  the  Indian  Pales- 
tine, the  martyrs  of  the  Indian  Christ,  are 
surely  the  brethren  of  all  whom  we  honor  in 
the  history  of  self-abnegation  and  the  good 
fight  for  truth. 

1  Vide  Chips  from  a  German  Workshop. 


L' AMOUR  APRlS  LA  MORT1 

No  rest  he  knew  because  of  her.  Even  in  the 
night  his  heart  was  ever  startled  from  slum- 
ber as  by  the  echo  of  her  footfall;  and  dreams 
mocked  him  with  tepid  fancies  of  her  lips;  and 
when  he  sought  forgetfulness  in  strange  kisses 
her  memory  ever  came  shadowing  between.  .  .  . 
So  that,  weary  of  his  life,  he  yielded  it  up  at 
last  in  the  fevered  summer  of  a  tropical  city,  — 
dying  with  her  name  upon  his  lips.  And  his 
face  was  no  more  seen  in  the  palm-shadowed 
streets;  —  but  the  sun  rose  and  sank  even  as 
before. 

And  that  vague  Something  which  lingers  a 
little  while  within  the  tomb  where  the  body 
moulders,  lingered  and  dreamed  within  the 
long  dark  resting-place  where  they  had  laid 
him  with  the  pious  hope  —  Que  en  paz  descanse  I 

Yet  so  weary  of  his  life  had  the  Wanderer 
been  that  the  repose  of  the  dead  was  not  for 

1  Times-Democrat,  April  6,  1884.  Hearn's  own  title. 
Signed.  Almost  identical  with  the  Item  "  Fantastic  " 
of  October  21,  1879. 

223 


FANTASTICS 

him.  And  while  the  body  shrank  and  sank  into 
dust,  the  phantom  man  found  no  rest  in  the 
darkness,  and  thought  dimly  to  himself:  "7 
am  even  too  weary  to  find  peace!" 

There  was  a  thin  crevice  in  the  ancient  wall 
of  the  tomb.  And  through  it,  and  through  the 
meshes  of  a  web  that  a  spider  had  woven 
athwart  it,  the  dead  looked  and  beheld  the 
amethystine  blaze  of  the  summer  sky,  —  and 
pliant  palms  bending  in  the  warm  wind,  — 
and  the  opaline  glow  of  the  horizon,  and  fair 
pools  bearing  images  of  cypresses  inverted,  — 
and  the  birds  that  flitted  from  tomb  to  tomb 
and  sang,  —  and  flowers  in  the  shadow  of 
the  sepulchres.  .  .  .  And  the  vast  bright  world 
seemed  to  him  not  so  hateful  as  before. 

Likewise  the  sounds  of  life  assailed  the  faint 
senses  of  the  dead  through  the  thin  crevice  in 
the  wall  of  the  tomb:  —  always  the  far-off, 
drowsy  murmur  made  by  the  toiling  of  the 
city's  heart;  sometimes  sounds  of  passing  con- 
verse and  of  steps,  —  echoes  of  music  and  of 
laughter,  —  chanting  and  chattering  of  chil- 
dren at  play,  —  and  the  liquid  babble  of  beau- 
tiful brown  women. 

...  So  that  the  dead  man  dreamed  of  life 
224 


L'AMOUR  APRES  LA  MORT 

and  strength  and  joy,  and  the  litheness  of  limbs 
to  be  loved:  also  of  that  which  had  been,  and 
of  that  which  might  have  been,  and  of  that 
which  now  could  never  be.  And  he  longed  at 
last  to  live  again  —  seeing  that  there  was  no 
rest  in  the  tomb. 

But  the  gold-born  days  died  in  golden  fire; 
and  blue  nights  unnumbered  filled  the  land 
with  indigo-shadows;  and  the  perfume  of  the 
summer  passed  like  a  breath  of  incense  —  and 
the  dead  within  the  sepulchre  could  not  wholly 
die. 

Stars  in  their  courses  peered  down  through 
the  crevices  of  the  tomb,  and  twinkled,  and 
passed  on;  winds  of  the  sea  shrieked  to  him 
through  the  widening  crannies  of  the  tomb; 
birds  sang  above  him  and  flew  to  other  lands; 
the  bright  lizards  that  ran  noiselessly  over  his 
bed  of  stone,  as  noiselessly  departed;  the  spider 
at  last  ceased  to  repair  her  web  of  elfin  silk; 
years  came  and  went  with  lentor  inexpressible; 
but  for  the  dead  there  was  no  rest! 

And  after  many  tropical  moons  had  waxed 

and  waned,  and  the  summer  was  deepening  in 

the  land,  filling  the  golden  air  with  tender 

drowsiness  and  passional  perfume,  it  strangely 

225 


FANTASTICS 

came  to  pass  that  She,  whose  name  had  been 
murmured  by  his  lips  when  the  Shadow  of 
Death  fell  upon  him,  came  to  that  city  of 
palms,  and  even  unto  the  ancient  place  of  sep- 
ulture, and  unto  the  tomb  that  was  nameless. 

And  he  knew  the  whisper  of  her  raiment  — 
knew  the  sweetness  of  her  presence  —  and  the 
pallid  hearts  of  the  blossoms  of  a  plant  whose 
blind  roots  had  found  food  within  the  crevice 
of  the  tomb,  changed  and  flushed,  and  flamed 
incarnadine.  .  .  . 

But  She  —  perceiving  it  not  —  passed  by; 
and  the  sound  of  her  footstep  died  away  for- 
ever. 


THE  POST-OFFICE1 

I 

THE  little  steamer  will  bear  you  thither  in 
one  summer  day,  —  starting  at  early  morning, 
arriving  just  as  the  sun  begins  to  rest  his  red 
chin  upon  the  edge  of  the  west.  It  is  a  some- 
what wearisome  and  a  wonderfully  tortuous 
journey,  through  that  same  marshy  labyrinth 
by  which  the  slavers  in  other  days  used  to 
smuggle  their  African  freight  up  to  the  old 
Creole  city  from  the  Gulf.  .  .  .  Leaving  the 
Mississippi  by  a  lock-guarded  opening  in  its 
western  levee,  the  miniature  packet  first  enters 
a  long  and  narrow  canal,  —  cutting  straight 
across  plantations  considerably  below  the  level 
of  its  raised  banks,  —  and  through  this  arti- 
ficial waterway  she  struggles  on,  panting  des- 
perately under  the  scorching  heat,  until  after 
long  hours  she  almost  leaps,  with  a  great  steam- 
sigh  of  relief,  into  the  deeper  and  broader 
bayou  that  serpentines  through  the  swamp- 

1  Times-Democrat,  October  19,  1884.  Hearn's  own 
title.  Signed. 

227 


FANTASTICS 

forest.  Then  there  is  at  least  ample  shadow; 
the  moss-hung  trees  fling  their  silhouettes  right 
across  the  water  and  into  the  woods  on  the 
other  side,  morning  and  evening.  Grotesque 
roots  —  black,  geniculated,  gnarly  —  project 
from  the  crumbling  banks  like  bones  from  an 
ancient  grave;  —  dead,  shrunken  limbs  and 
fallen  trunks  lie  macerating  in  the  slime.  Grim 
shapes  of  cypress  stoop  above  us,  and  seem  to 
point  the  way  with  anchylosed  knobby  finger, 
—  their  squalid  tatters  of  moss  grazing  our 
smoke-stack.  The  banks  swarm  with  crusta- 
ceans, gnawing,  burrowing,  undermining;  gray 
saurians  slumber  among  the  gray  floating  logs 
at  the  edge;  gorged  carrion-birds  doze  upon 
the  paralytic  shoulders  of  cypresses,  about 
whose  roots  are  coiled  more  serpents  than  ever 
gnawed  Yggdrasil.  The  silence  is  only  broken 
by  the  loud  breathing  of  the  little  steamer;  — 
odors  of  vegetable  death  —  smells  of  drowned 
grasses  and  decomposing  trunks  and  of  eternal 
mould-formation  —  make  the  air  weighty  to 
breathe;  and  the  green  obscurities  on  either 
hand  deepen  behind  the  crests  of  the  water- 
oaks  and  the  bright  masses  of  willow  frondes- 
cense.  The  parasitic  lif  e  of  the  swamp,  pendant 
228 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

and  enormous,  gives  the  scene  a  drenched,  half- 
drowned  look,  as  of  a  land  long-immersed,  and 
pushed  up  again  from  profundities  of  stagnant 
water,  —  and  still  dripping  with  moisture  and 
monstrous  algae.  .  .  . 

The  ranks  of  the  water-oaks  become  less  ser- 
ried,— the  semi  tropical  vegetation  less  puissant, 

—  the  willows  and  palmettoes  and  cypresses 
no  longer  bar  out  the  horizon-light;  and  the 
bayou  broadens  into  a  shining,  green-rimmed 
sheet  of  water,  over  which  our  little  boat  puffs 
a  zigzag  course,  —  feeling  her  way  cautiously, 

—  to  enter  a  long  chain  of  lakelets  and  lakes, 
all  bayou-linked  together.    Sparser  and  lower 
becomes  the  foliage-line,  lower  also  the  banks; 

—  the  water-tints  brighten  bluely;  the  heavy 
and  almost  acrid  odors  of  the  swamp  pass 
away.   So  thin  the  land  is  that  from  the  little 
steamer's  deck,  as  from  a  great  altitude,  the 
eye  can  range  over  immense  distances.   These 
are  the  skirts  of  the  continent,  trending  in 
multitudinous  tatters  southward  to  the  sea; 

—  and   the  practiced  gaze  of   the   geologist 
can  discern  the  history  of  prodigious  alluvial 
formation,  the  slow  creation  of  future  prairie 
lands,  in  those  long  grassy  tongues,  —  those 

229 


FANTASTICS 

desolate  islands,  shaped  like  the  letters  of  an 
Oriental  alphabet,  —  those  reaches  of  flesh- 
colored  sand,  that  shift  their  shape  with  the 
years,  but  never  cease  to  grow. 

Miles  of  sluggish,  laboring  travel,  —  some- 
times over  shallows  of  less  than  half  a  fathom, 
—  through  archipelagoes  whose  islets  become 
more  and  more  widely  separated  as  we  pro- 
ceed. Then  the  water  deepens  steadily,  — • 
and  the  sky  also  seems  to  deepen,  —  and  there 
is  something  in  the  bright  air  that  makes 
electrical  commotion  in  the  blood  and  fills  the 
lungs  with  richer  lif  e.  Gulls  with  white  breasts 
and  dark,  broad  wings  sweep  past  with  sharp, 
plaintive  cries;  brown  clouds  of  pelicans  hover 
above  tiny  islands  within  rifle-shot,  —  alter- 
nately rising  and  descending  all  together. 
Through  luminous  distances  the  eye  can  just 
distinguish  masses  of  foliage,  madder-colored 
by  remoteness,  that  seem  to  float  in  suspension 
between  the  brightness  of  the  horizon  and  the 
brightness  of  water,  like  shapes  of  the  Fata 
Morgana.  And  in  those  far,  dim,  island  groves 
prevails,  perhaps,  the  strange  belief  that  the 
Universe  itself  is  but  a  mirage;  for  the  gods  of 
the  most  eastern  East  have  been  transported 
230 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

thither,  and  the  incense  of  Oriental  prayer 
mounts  thence  into  the  azure  of  a  Christian 
heaven.  Those  are  Chinese  fishing-stations, 

—  miniature  villages  of  palmetto  huts,  whose 
yellow  populations  still  cling  to  the  creed  of 
Fo,  —  unless,  indeed,  they  follow  the  more 
practical  teachings  of  the  Ancient  Infant,  bora 
with  snow-white  hair,  —  the  doctrine  of  the 
good  Thai-chang-lao-kinn,  the  sublime  Loo- 
tseu.  . . . 

II 

Glassy-smooth  the  water  sleeps  along  the 
northern  coast  of  our  island  summer  resort, 
as  the  boat  slowly  skirts  the  low  beach,  pass- 
ing bright  shallows  where  seines  of  stupendous 
extent  are  hung  upon  rows  of  high  stakes  to 
dry;  —  but  already  the  ear  is  filled  with  a 
ponderous  and  powerful  sound,  rolling  up  from 
the  south  through  groves  of  orange  and  lemon, 

—  the  sound  of  that  "great  voice  that  shakes 
the  world."  For  less  than  half  a  mile  away,  — 
across  the  narrow  island,  —  immense  surges 
are  whitening  all  the  long  slant  of  sand.  .  .  . 
Divinely  caressing  the  first  far-off  tones  of 
that  eternal  voice  to  one  revisiting  ocean  after 

231 


FANTASTICS 

absence  of  many  weary  and  dusty  summers,  — 
tones  filling  the  mind  with  even  such  vague 
blending  of  tenderness  and  of  awe  as  the  pious 
traveler  might  feel  when,  returning  after  long 
sojourn  in  a  land  of  strange,  grim  gods,  whose 
temple  pavements  may  never  be  trodden  by 
Occidental  feet,  he  hears  again  the  pacific 
harmonies  of  some  cathedral  organ,  breaking 
all  about  him  in  waves  of  golden  thunder. 

. .  .  Then  with  a  joyous  shock  we  bump  the 
ancient  wooden  wharf,  —  where  groups  of  the 
brown  island  people  are  already  waiting  to 
scrutinize  each  new  face  with  kindliest  curi- 
osity; for  the  advent  of  the  mail-packet  is  ever 
a  great  and  gladsome  event.  Even  the  dogs 
bark  merry  welcome,  and  run  to  be  caressed. 
A  tramway  car  receives  the  visitors,  —  bag- 
gage is  piled  on,  —  the  driver  clacks  his  tongue, 
—  the  mule  starts,  —  the  dogs  rush  on  in  ad- 
vance to  announce  our  coming. 

HI 

In  the  autumn  of  the  old  feudal  years,  all 
this  sea-girdled  land  was  one  quivering  splen- 
dor of  sugar-cane,  walled  in  from  besieging 
tides  with  impregnable  miles  of  levee.    But 
232 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

when  the  great  decadence  came,  the  rude  sea 
gathered  up  its  barbarian  might,  and  beat 
down  the  strong  dikes,  and  made  waste  the 
opulent  soil,  and,  in  Abimelech-fury,  sowed 
the  site  of  its  conquests  with  salt.  Some  of  the 
old  buildings  are  left;  —  the  sugar-house  has 
been  converted  into  an  ample  dining-hall;  the 
former  slave-quarters  have  been  remodeled 
and  fitted  up  for  guests  —  a  charming  village 
of  white  cottages,  shadowed  by  aged  trees; 
the  sugar-pans  have  been  turned  into  water- 
vessels  for  the  live  stock;  and  the  old  planta- 
tion-bell, of  honest  metal  and  pure  tone,  now 
summons  the  visitor  to  each  repast. 

And  all  this  little  world,  though  sown  with 
sand  and  salt,  teems  with  extraordinary  exu- 
berance of  We.  Night  and  day  the  foliage  of  the 
long  groves  vibrates  to  chant  of  insect  and 
feathered  songster;  and  beyond  reckoning  are 
the  varieties  of  nest-builders, —  among  whom 
very  often  may  be  perceived  rose-colored  or 
flame-colored  strangers  of  the  tropics,  — 
flown  hither  over  the  Caribbean  Sea.  The 
waters  are  choked  with  fish;  the  horizon  ever 
darkened  with  flights  of  birds;  the  very  soil 
seems  to  stir,  to  creep,  to  breathe.  Every  little 
233 


FANTASTICS 

bank,  ditch,  creek,  swarms  with  "fiddlers," 
each  holding  high  its  single  huge  white  claw 
in  readiness  for  battle;  and  the  dryer  lands  are 
haunted  by  myriads  of  ghostly  Crustacea,  — 
phantom  crabs,  —  semi-diaphanous  creatures 
that  flit  over  the  land  with  the  speed  and  light- 
ness of  tarantulas,  and  are  so  pale  of  shell  that 
their  moving  shadows  first  betray  their  pres- 
ence. There  are  immense  choruses  of  tree-frogs 
by  day,  bamboulas  of  water-frogs  after  sun- 
down. The  vast  vitality  of  the  ocean  seems  to 
interpenetrate  all  that  sprouts,  breathes,  flies. 
Cattle  fatten  wonderfully  upon  the  tough  wire- 
grass;  sheep  multiply  exceedingly.  In  every 
chink  something  is  trying  to  grow,  in  every 
orifice  some  tiny  life  seeks  to  hide  itself  (even 
beneath  the  edge  of  the  table  on  which  I  wrote 
some  queer  little  creatures  had  built  three  mar- 
velous nests  of  dry  mud) ;  —  every  substance 
here  appears  not  only  to  maintain  life  but  to 
create  it;  and  ideas  of  spontaneous  generation 
present  themselves  with  irresistible  force. 

IV 

...  And  children  in  multitude!  —  children 
of  many  races,  and  of  many  tints,  —  ranging 
234 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

from  ivorine  to  glossy  bronze,  through  half 
the  shades  of  Broca's  pattern-colors;  —  for 
there  is  a  strange  blending  of  tribes  and  peo- 
ples here.  By  and  by,  when  the  youths  and 
maidens  of  these  patriarchal  families  shall 
mate,  they  will  build  for  themselves  funny 
little  timber-homes,  —  like  those  you  see  dot- 
ting the  furzy-green  plain  about  the  log-dwell- 
ing of  the  oldest  settler,  —  even  as  so  many 
dove-cots.  Existence  here  is  so  facile,  happy, 
primitively  simple,  that  trifles  give  joy  un- 
speakable; —  in  that  bright  air  whose  purity 
defies  the  test  of  even  the  terrible  solar  micro- 
scope, neither  misery  nor  malady  may  live. 
To  such  contented  minds  surely  the  Past  must 
ever  appear  in  a  sunset-glow  of  gold ;  the  Future 
in  eternal  dawn  of  rose;  —  until,  perchance, 
the  huge  dim  city  summon  some  of  them  to  her 
dusty  servitude,  when  the  gray  elders  shall 
have  passed  away,  and  the  little  patches  of  yel- 
low-flowered meadow-land  shall  have  changed 
hands,  and  the  island  hath  no  more  place  for 
all  its  children.  ...  So  they  live  and  love,  and 
marry  and  give  in  marriage,  and  build  their 
little  dove-cots,  and  pass  away  forever,  — 
either  to  smoky  cities  of  the  South  and  West, 
235 


FANTASTICS 

or,  indeed,  to  that  vaster  and  more  ancient 
city,  whose  streets  are  shadowless  and  voice- 
less, and  whose  gates  are  guarded  by  God. 

But  the  mighty  blind  sea  will  ever  chant 
the  same  mysterious  hymn,  under  the  same 
infinite  light  of  blue,  for  those  who  shall  come 
after  them.  . . . 


...  No  electric  nerves  have  yet  penetrated 
this  little  world,  to  connect  its  humble  life 
with  the  industrial  and  commercial  activities 
of  the  continent:  here  the  feverish  speculator 
feels  no  security:  —  it  is  a  fit  sojourn  for  those 
only  who  wish  to  forget  the  harsh  realities  of 
city  existence,  the  burning  excitement  of  loss 
and  gain,  the  stern  anxieties  of  duty,  —  who 
care  only  to  enjoy  the  rejuvenating  sea,  to 
drink  the  elixir  of  the  perfect  air,  to  dream 
away  the  long  and  luminous  hours,  perfumed 
with  sweet,  faint  odors  of  summer.  The  little 
mail-boat,  indeed,  comes  at  regular  intervals 
of  days,  and  the  majesty  of  the  United  States 
is  represented  by  a  post-office,  —  but  the  ex- 
istence of  that  office  could  never  be  divined  by 
the  naked  eye. 

236 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

A  negro,  who  seemed  to  understand  Span- 
ish only,  responded  to  my  inquiries  by  remov- 
ing a  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  pointing  the  cane- 
stem  thereof  toward  a  building  that  made  a 
dark  red  stain  against  the  green  distance  — 
with  the  words:  "Casa  de  correo?  —  si,  senort 
directamente  detras  del  campo,  senor;  —  sigue 
el  camino  carretero  d  la  casa  color  ada." 

So  I  crossed  plains  thickly  grown  with  a 
sturdy  green  weed  bearing  small  yellow  flowers, 
and  traversed  plank-bridges  laid  over  creeks 
in  which  I  saw  cats  fishing  and  swimming  — 
actually  swimming,  for  even  the  feline  race 
loses  its  dread  of  water  here;  —  and  I  followed 
a  curving  roadway  half  obliterated  by  wire- 
grass  —  until  I  found  myself  at  last  within  a 
small  farmyard,  where  cords  of  wood  were 
piled  up  about  an  antique,  gabled,  chocolate- 
colored  building  that  stood  in  the  midst.  I 
walked  half  around  it,  seeking  for  the  entrance, 
—  hearing  only  the  sound  of  children's  voices, 
and  a  baby's  laughter;  and  finally  came  in 
front  of  an  open  gallery  on  the  southern  side, 
where  a  group  of  Creole  children  were,  —  two 
pretty  blond  infants,  with  an  elder  and  darker 
sister.  Seated  in  a  rocking-chair,  her  infant 
237 


FANTASTICS 

brother  sprawling  at  her  feet,  she  was  dancing 
a  baby  sister  on  her  knee,  chanting  the  while 
this  extraordinary  refrain:  — 

"Zanimaux  caquene  so  manie  galoupe; — 
bourique,  —  tiquiti,  tiquiti,  tiquiti;  milet, — 
tocoto,  tocoto,  tocoto;  qou-oal,  —  tacata,  tacatat 
tacata." 

And  with  the  regular  crescendo  of  the  three 
onomatopes,  the  baby  went  higher  and  higher. 
.  . .  My  steps  had  made  no  sound  upon  the  soft 
grass;  the  singer's  back,  inundated  with  chest- 
nut hair,  was  turned  toward  me;  but  the  baby 
had  observed  my  approach,  and  its  blue  stare 
of  wonder  caused  the  girl  to  look  round.  At 
once  she  laid  the  child  upon  the  floor,  arose, 
and  descended  the  wooden  step  to  meet  me 
with  the  question,  —  "  Want  to  see  papa?  " 

She  might  perhaps  have  been  twelve,  not 
older, : —  slight,  with  one  of  those  sensitive, 
oval  faces  that  reveal  a  Latin  origin,  and  the 
pinkness  of  rich  health  bursting  through  its 
olive  skin;  —  the  eyes  that  questioned  my  face 
were  brown  and  beautiful  as  a  wild  deer's. 

"I  want  to  get  some  stamped  envelopes," 
I  responded;  —  "is  this  the  post-office?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  can  give  them  to  you,"  she  ao- 
238 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

swered,  turning  back  toward  the  gallery  steps; 
—  "come  this  way!" 

I  followed  her  as  far  as  the  doorway  of  the 
tiniest  room  I  had  ever  seen,  —  just  large 
enough  to  contain  a  safe,  an  office  desk,  and  a 
chair.  It  was  cozy,  carpeted,  and  well  lighted 
by  a  little  window  fronting  the  sea.  I  saw  a 
portrait  hanging  above  the  desk,  —  a  singu- 
larly fine  gray  head,  with  prophetic  features 
and  Mosaic  beard,  —  the  portrait  of  the  is- 
land's patriarch. . . . 

"You  see,"  she  observed,  in  response  to  my 
amused  gaze,  while  she  carefully  unlocked  the 
safe,  —  "when  papa  and  mamma  are  at  work 
in  the  field,  I  have  to  take  charge.  Papa  tells 
me  what  to  do.  —  How  many  did  you  say?  — 
four!  —  that  will  be  ten  cents.  —  Now,  if  you 
have  a  letter  to  post,  you  can  leave  it  here  — 
if  you  like." 

I  handed  her  my  letter  —  a  thick  one  — 
in  a  two-cent  envelope.  She  weighed  it  in  her 
slender  brown  hand;  —  I  suspected  the  postage 
was  insufficient. 

"It  is  too  heavy,"  she  said;  —  "you  will 
have  to  put  another  stamp  on  it,  I  think." 

"In  that  case,"  I  replied,  "take  back  one  of 
239 


FANTASTICS 

the  stamped  envelopes,  and  give  me  instead  a 
two-cent  stamp  for  my  letter." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  with  a  pretty  look 
of  seriousness,  —  and  then  answered:  — 

"Why,  yes,  I  could  do  that;  but  —  but  that 
would  n't  be  doing  fair  by  you"  —  passing 
her  fine  thin  fingers  through  the  brown  curls 
in  a  puzzled  way;  —  "no,  that  wouldn't  be 
fair  to  you." 

"  Of  course  it 's  fair,"  I  averred  encouragingly 

—  "we  can't  bother  with  fractions,  and  I  have 
no  more  small  change.  That  is  all  right." 

"No,  it  isn't  all  right,"  she  returned,— 
making  the  exchange  with  some  reluctance;  — 
"it  is  n't  right  to  take  more  than  the  worth 
of  our  money;  but  I  don't  really  know  how  to 
fix  it.  I  '11  ask  papa  when  he  comes  home,  and 
we  '11  send  you  the  difference  —  if  there  is  any. 

—  Oh !  yes,  I  will !  —  I  '11  send  it  to  the  hotel.  — 
It  would  n't  be  right  to  keep  it." 

All  vain  my  protests. 

"No,  no!  I'm  sure  we  owe  you  something. 
Valentine!  Leonie!  —  say  good-bye,  —  nicely!" 

So  the  golden-haired  babies  cooed  their 
"goo'bye,"  as  I  turned  the  corner,  and  waved 
them  kisses;  —  and  as  I  reached  the  wagon- 
240 


THE  POST-OFFICE 

road  by  the  open  gate,  I  heard  again  the 
bird-voice  of  the  little  post-mistress  singing 
her  onomatopoetic  baby-song,  "Bourique, — 
tiquiti,  tiquiti,  tiquiti;  milet,  —  tocoto,  tocoto, 
tocoto;  $ouval,  —  tacata,  tacata,  tacata." 

VI 

.  .  .  O  little  brown-eyed  lamb,  the  wolfish 
world  waits  hungrily  to  devour  such  as  thou! 

—  O  dainty  sea-land  flower,  that  pmkness  of 
thine  will  not  fade  out  more  speedily  than  shall 
evaporate  thy  perfume  of   sweet  illusions  in 
the  stagnant  air  of  cities!    Many  tears  will 
dim  those  dark  eyes,  nevertheless,  ere  thou 
shalt  learn  that  wealth  —  even  the  wealth  of 
nations  —  is  accumulated,  without  sense  of 
altruism,  in  eternal  violation  of  those  exquisite 
ethics  which  seem  to  thee  of  God's  own  teach- 
ing. When  thou  shalt  have  learned  this,  and 
other   and   sadder   things,  perhaps,  memory 
may  crown  thee  with  her  crown  of  sorrows, 

—  may  bear  thee  back,  back,  in  wonderful  haze 
of  blue  and  gold,  to  that  island  home  of  thine, 

—  even  into  that  tiny  office-room,  with  its 
smiHng  gray  portrait  of  thy  dead  father's  fa- 
ther. And  fancy  may  often  re-create  for  thee 

341 


FANTASTICS 

the  welcome  sound  of  hoofs  returning  home:  — 
"$ouval,  —  tacata,  tacata,  tacata"  .  .  . 

And  dreaming  of  the  funny  little  refrain,  the 
stranger  fancied  he  could  look  into  the  future 
of  many  years.  .  .  .  And  in  the  public  car  of  a 
city  railroad,  he  saw  a  brown-eyed,  sweet-faced 
woman,  whom  it  seemed  he  had  known  a  child, 
but  now  with  a  child  of  her  own  —  asleep  there 
in  her  arms  —  and  so  pale!  It  was  sundown; 
and  her  face  was  turned  to  the  west,  where  lin- 
gered splendid  mockeries  of  summer  seas,  — 
golden  Pacifies  speckled  with  archipelagoes  of 
rose  and  fairy-green.  But  he  knew  in  some 
mysterious  way  that  she  was  thinking  of  seas 
not  of  mist,  —  of  islands  not  of  cloud,  while  the 
heavy  vehicle  rumbled  on  its  dusty  way,  and 
the  hoofs  of  the  mule  seemed  to  beat  time  to 
an  old  Creole  refrain  —  Milet,  —  tocoto,  tocoto 
iocoto. 


THE  END 


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